Shredded

Extreme Risk - 1

by

Tracy Wolff

Chapter 1

Z

I’m halfway up the mountain on the magic carpet when it hits me that it’s dark. Really dark, not just getting dark. Which sucks because it means I’m done. That was the last run. No more boarding tonight since all of the good runs close down once it hits full dark.

Normally that’s not a problem—I’ve been out here for seven hours already and my body could use a break, especially since my toes started going numb over an hour ago.

But tonight I’m not ready to go in. Not now, when my skin feels itchy and too tight and my brain is spinning with the need to forget—

I cut the thought off as I exit the ski lift at the top of the mountain and unhook my gear. Instead I concentrate on unbuckling my board and checking the screws at the bottom of it to make sure there’s no damage. I totally barged that last run—which was banging at the time—but I carved the last few rails hard. My board took most of the impact, and I want to make sure it’s still solid.

Turns out it is, and I’m just sliding it into the equipment rack to the right of the lift when Cam steps onto the snow behind me. She’s as excited as I’ve ever seen her. “Dude, that last run was wicked! I’ve never seen you do that inverted triple cork before.”

“That’s ’cuz there are too many gaffers around here to get in the way.” The last thing I need is to get tangled up with a tourist who doesn’t know what he’s doing—that’s how shit turns ugly, fast. But today I couldn’t stop myself from busting out. From the second I woke up this morning there’s been this force building inside me, pressing down on my chest until I feel like I’m drowning. On days like this, taking it out on the powder is the only way I can breathe.

But the run’s shutting down—Cam was the last one up—and the feeling’s back, worse than before. I’m standing here, wind kicking up, fresh air all around me, and still I’m suffocating.

Beside me, Cam dumps her stuff next to mine, then heads for the bench where we normally wait for Lucas and Ash to finish up at the half-pipe. I follow her, but the second I sit down next to her the itchiness gets worse. As does the throbbing at the base of my neck.

Nope, sitting here in the dark, waiting, isn’t going to do it for me tonight. Maybe if I’d brought some weed to mellow me out, but my stash is at home. When I’d left the house this morning, I’d told myself I could handle it. That today was just another day.

What a fucking joke that is. I feel like I’m going to explode.

I start to stand up again, to pace off the energy that’s slamming at me from the inside, but Cam stops me with a hand on my arm. “I’m serious. That trick was freakin’ amazing. How long have you been working on it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You probably started trying to do it yesterday.” She shakes her head, looks disgusted. “I’ve been trying to do a 900—any kind of 900—for months now, and we both know how well that’s going.”

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that she’s a girl—that no matter how strong she is and no matter how much she practices, I’m going to be able to do things she can’t. Not because I’m a better boarder, because I’m not. She’s totally sick on a snowboard. But testosterone is just one of those things. I’m physically stronger than her, so I can catch bigger air, do more complicated tricks.

“I’m serious,” she continues. “One of these days I’m going to figure out how to do that move.”

“No doubt.”

“Hey.” She punches my shoulder. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Do I look like I’m in the mood to patronize anyone?” Right now, the pressure’s so bad I can barely talk, barely breathe.

“So are you doing okay?” she asks, laying a hand on my arm.

“Yeah. ’Course I am. Totally solid.” I shrug her hand away, and now I do stand up. Pretend I’m fascinated watching the resort workers do all the routine tasks that come with closing up one of the black diamond runs.

But Cam’s not buying it. She’s right beside me again, her face tilted up to mine, her big brown eyes filled with a worry I just don’t want. Or need. And something else. Something I’m seeing from her more and more often lately. I usually avoid it—she’s one of my best friends, after all, not to mention the girl Luc’s been in love with practically forever—but for a second, just a second, I think about taking her up on the invitation.

Before I know what I’m doing, I bend my head. Lean in. Our lips are only a few inches apart now and her eyes go wide, her breath catching in her throat. I can all but feel her tense, all but hear her heart pick up a beat.

It would be so easy to kiss her.

So easy to take her back to her place and fuck her like I have hundreds of other girls.

So easy to pretend it isn’t her and just lose myself in another body.

But then what? I have a hard enough time looking at myself in the mirror as it is. If I screw with her like that—screw with Luc—for an hour of sex that won’t mean anything when it’s over, then I’m an even bigger dick than I thought.

I can’t do it. Not to her. And not to Luc.

There are plenty of girls out there who don’t want anything more than I do. And whom I won’t have to face in the morning.

I back away at the last second, nod toward the lodge. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

She stares at me for long moments, but this time all I see in her eyes is pure pissed-off female. It’s a look I’m well acquainted with, and relief sweeps through me as I register it. After all, having Cam mad at me is a million times better than having her looking at me with all that worry and other crap.

She doesn’t call me on my shit, though, and since the wind’s really kicking up—making the whole mountaintop look like a snow globe in the hands of a hyped-up toddler—she doesn’t argue, either. At least not until we make it through the wide glass doors of the Lost Canyon ski lodge. We’re only there a few seconds before a group of rowdy grommets plows straight into us, sending Cam sprawling on her ass. The kids take off running before either of us can do more than stare at the little monsters.

I hold out a hand to help her up and she takes it, but her blue eyes spark with annoyance. “What exactly are we doing, Z?” she demands as she climbs back to her feet. “You know I hate coming in here.”

“Don’t sweat it. Mike’s not out here tonight. And even if he was, I won’t let him near you.”

She stiffens at the mention of her douche-bag ex. “He’s not the one I’m worried about.”

“Oh, yeah? Who are you worried about, then?” I glance around. I wouldn’t mind getting rid of some of this tension by beating the shit out of some guy who’s hassling her.

“You, Z. I’m concerned about you.”

Fuck. I walked right into that one. Cam, Luc, Ash, and I have been friends since we were like five. Which is great when you understand that we’d pretty much lie down in traffic for each other, but not so great when it comes to the fact that we know everything there is to know about one another—including the fucked-up stuff.

“Don’t be,” I tell her, determined to get my head in the game. “I already told you, I’m solid.”

“Yeah, right.” She pulls off her ski hat and her crazy red curls poof in all directions. With all that hair and her turquoise snowboarding suit she looks a little like a Muppet. A cute Muppet, but a Muppet nonetheless. To annoy her—and maybe to distract her, too—I reach out a hand, ruffle her curls.

She slaps at me, but she’s laughing, so I do it some more. The tension from that disaster of an almost-kiss fades away and relief whips through me. I’ve fucked up enough in my life. Messing up my friendship with her and Luc, too, isn’t an option.

She ducks down, escapes my hand before landing a bony elbow squarely in my stomach. I don’t flinch, but only because not showing weakness is something of a religion with me—even to one of my closest friends. I give her curls an extra tug before dodging out of range, just to show her the elbow didn’t hurt.

“Come on, let’s go get a table.”

“Why can’t we wait outside like we usually do?” She’s almost whining now, and any other time I’d give in to her. But not now. Not tonight.

Because if I can’t board, can’t smoke, and can’t fight, there’s only one option left. And we’ve already had one too-close-for-comfort call. “It’s cold out there, in case you haven’t noticed.”

She looks me up and down. “You’re wearing three thousand dollars in top-of-the-line snowboarding gear and you’re worried about a little cold?”

“A little cold? No.” I point toward the doors we just came through. In the last few minutes the wind has picked up even more and snow is flying in all directions. “But it is fucking cold out there. I was starting to worry about getting frostbite on my nuts.”

She rolls her eyes, makes a sound of disgust. “Nice, Z.”

“Hey, you asked,” I tell her as I shed my jacket. It might be approaching blizzard conditions outside, but inside the resort the heat is cranking full blast. It feels good after half a day on the mountain, but the last thing I want to do is start to sweat, not when we’ll be back out there in a matter of minutes. “Besides, your lips turned blue about an hour ago. I thought you’d appreciate the chance to thaw out.”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re in here,” she says, finally getting on board and making a beeline for the only available table in the coffee bar. “Because you’re worried about the condition of my lips.”

I ignore her as we weave through tangles of people and snow gear alike. The place is crowded, but that’s nothing new this time of year. Everyone from serious hobbyists to firsttimers and everything in between hits the Park City slopes once winter closes in, all hoping for a rip-roaring time. Of course, most of the tourists don’t know what the hell they’re doing—one of the many reasons I, like most of the locals, normally avoid the hotels here like the plague. It’s a lot easier to get hurt on a run when half the people out there with you don’t have a clue what they’re doing.

In fact, if I had my way, I’d be boarding the backcountry every day instead of just on weekends. But once Lost Canyon started paying Luc and Ash to ride here when they’re in town, I started coming with them instead of heading into the non-resortified areas. Because while I might spend my life doing crazy shit, even I’m not screwed up enough to go backcountry on my own. At least most of the time.

Cam slides into the booth, then looks at me expectantly. “I’d like a Power O,” she tells me. It’s the snowboarder special here at Lost Canyon, a specially mixed energy drink that slams you with a shot of pure adrenaline. It’s her favorite, but it’s never really done much for me. I prefer my adrenaline delivered straight up.

“I thought it was your turn to buy.”

She snorts, tries to look tough. “Dude, stop fronting. We both know why we’re in here.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask, brow raised. “And why is that?”

She zeroes in on option number four and we both pretend there’s no hurt behind the snide look she gives me. “The blonde with the big boobs and don’t-fuck-with-me attitude currently taking orders behind the counter. You’ve been looking for her ever since you saw her on the slopes last week. I’m just surprised it’s taken you this long to make a move.”

To be honest, so am I. She caught my eye the first day she stumbled out to deliver a message to the magic carpet attendant in her tight jeans and way-too-light coat. I almost introduced myself to her then, but by the time I got to the top she was walking away.

She’s been skating around the edges of my mind ever since. So yesterday, when Ash mentioned there was a hot new blonde working the coffee stand at the top of the mountain, I put it together and filed the info away for future use.

It looks like the future’s tonight. I figure I’ll head over and chat her up while Cam and I are waiting for the others. Find out her name. And see how long it takes to convince her to take a break so I can get her up against the nearest dressing room wall.

It’ll solve two problems for me—get rid of some of this itchiness that just won’t go away and make sure Cam understands just how little that near-miss out there means to me.

When I don’t immediately respond to her taunts, Cam narrows her eyes at me. “What? Are you afraid you’ve lost your touch or something?”

It’s my turn to snort. “Like that’s ever happened.”

“I don’t know. There’s a first for everything.”

“Not that,” I tell her firmly.

“Well, then, go get my drink.” Her phone beeps and she glances down, reads the text. “And get one for Luc and Ash, too. They’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

“Small or large?”

She looks at me pointedly. “You sure that’s a question you want to be batting around right now? You were the one concerned about frostbite, after all.”

I flip her off, and she returns the gesture as I walk away. I’m not paying attention anymore, though.

Instead, all my attention is focused on the girl working the register. She’s talking to a customer—an older man clutching a cup of coffee in each hand—and grinning at whatever he’s telling her. She’s got a great smile and I can’t help wondering why I didn’t notice that the other night. It’s not as great as her body, which is smoking hot, but it’s still pretty awesome.

And so are her eyes, which are an intense shade of green. They’re kind of wide and sexy, especially when she glances at something out of the corner of them, like she’s done a bunch of times in the last few minutes. She’s got a good mouth, too, and for a second I’m so wrapped up in thinking about what it’d feel like wrapped around my cock that I don’t even notice when Lila darts straight into my path.

She grabs on to me, wraps her arms around my waist, and presses her firm, sweet body up against mine. I try to move past her, but she’s got a good grip and she’s not letting go. Short of shaking her off—which is a dick move, even for me—there’s not much to do but grin and bear it.

“Hey, Z!” Her voice is breathier than normal and she’s batting her eyelashes so hard I’m afraid she’s going to pop out one of her colored contacts. “You’re looking good tonight.”

“Thanks. So are you.” I reach around, slowly untangle myself from her octopus grip. But she just grabs on to my hands with both of hers.

“You think so?”

Not really. “Yeah, of course.” I look her over, try for something nice to say. “That sweater looks good on you.”

She preens and again I start to move past her, but she won’t let go of my right hand. Instead, she runs her fingertips over my knuckles before prying my fingers out from the fist I’ve unwittingly made. Then she looks at my palm. “Ooh, you have a really deep love line,” she tells me as she strokes one long pink nail along the chained crease. “Do you know what that means?”

“Haven’t got a clue.” My tone implies that I don’t care, either, but she’s not listening. She’s too into the big seduction she’s mapped out in her head, and I rock back on my heels, resigned to the worst she has to offer. Nothing short of a five-man extraction team is getting me out of this before Lila’s ready to let go.

She moves even closer, so close that her mouth is pressed against my ear and her tits are resting against my arm when she whispers, “It means that you are very good in bed.”

Call me crazy, but— “I didn’t think you’d need to read my palm to know that.”

She giggles again, and to me it’s like nails scraping against a chalkboard. “I don’t, silly. I remember every minute of our night together.”

Interesting, since I don’t remember any of it and I wasn’t even drunk. Or at least I don’t think I was. All of the parties—and the girls—are starting to blur together.

Again, I don’t say what I’m thinking. Instead I work on prying her hand off mine. I finally manage to escape, but I only get a few steps away before she throws herself in my path once more.

“Where are you rushing off to? Why don’t you come sit with my friends and me?” She nods toward a table of four other girls, all of whom are staring at me like I’m dessert. Normally I’d be all over that invitation, but right now it couldn’t sound less appealing. Especially when the new girl throws back her head and laughs at something the old guy in line says to her.

I like the sound of it. Like little tinkling bells. I feel like a total pussy for noticing, but then again, there’s not much about her I haven’t noticed at this point.

“So, Z, what do you think? You want to hang with us tonight?”

When it becomes glaringly obvious that the only way I’m going to get away from her is to knock her down, I drag my eyes away from the new girl and focus on Lila. She giggles a little and the eyelash batting gets worse. “Sorry,” I tell her. “I’ve got plans.”

“With her?” She shoots a venomous glance over at the table where Cam is sitting, fiddling with her phone. “Please. You can do better than that loser. I mean, does she even like guys? Ditch her and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

What little patience I’ve managed to hang on to abandons me right there. No one talks shit about my friends. No one.

I shrug Lila off, and this time I don’t bother to be nice about it. “I wouldn’t ditch a one-night stand for you, let alone my best friend.” I look her over, and this time I make sure nothing but disdain shows. “Oh, right. You were a one-night stand.”

She has nothing to say to that. I move past her, trying to ignore how pale she is and the way her eyes are suddenly shimmering with tears. She grabs at my arm, but I shake her off. It’s her own fault. I tried to be nice—I hate guys that are dicks to girls just because they can be—but no one gets away with dissing Cam around me. That girl’s been through too much already. She doesn’t need—or deserve—to get shit from anyone else, especially after what I pulled tonight.

Still, I don’t like making girls cry. It reminds me too much of April, and I can’t go there.

I won’t go there.

By the time I get to the counter, the tension inside me has reached critical mass. Part of me expects my skin to split open under the pressure of it any second now.

The old guy has moved on, thank God, but now there’s a small line of people between me and the new girl. I focus on her to the exclusion of everything else, take this shot at checking her over to block out the rest of my fucked-up life.

She looks good up close, and even though she’s wearing jeans and a turtleneck, both items are tight enough that I can see just how hot her body really is. Too bad we live in the snow, ’cuz this girl should never wear a coat.

I pass the time imagining what I’m going to do to her when I get her alone.

Where I want to touch.

Which spots I want to kiss. To lick. To bite.

With her there are so many that I’m not sure where to start. At the nape of her neck, right below where she’s bundled her hair into that messy bun? At the birthmark right below her jaw on the right side of her neck? Or at the tiny little dimple that flashes in her left cheek whenever she smiles at a customer?

Wherever I start, I know exactly where I want to end up. But now I’m just torturing myself, and by the time I get to the counter, I’m grateful I’m still in my thick snowboarding pants. Otherwise, my interest would be obvious to everyone in the damn room.

“What can I get you?” she asks, her fingers poised over the register. For the first time I realize her nails are painted a funky green that almost exactly matches her eyes—not what I was expecting from her with all those tough-girl vibes she throws out. I like the color, though, almost as much as I like knowing there’s more to her than I thought.

Not that it really matters, I remind myself. I want to fuck her, not get to know all her twists and turns.

“I don’t know.” I let my voice go a little huskier than normal, give her the half smile that usually gets me whatever I want. “What’s good?”

“That depends on what you like.” She mimics my tone exactly, but when I search her face there’s nothing but polite professional interest there. It’s my second clue that I might be in for more than I bargained for here.

Interested despite my less than honorable intentions, I lean against the counter and contemplate my choices. The answer I want to give her has nothing to do with coffee and everything to do with what I’ve spent the last five minutes fantasizing about. But something tells me that kind of approach won’t work with her, not this girl with the deliberately bland face, kick-ass voice, and—I glance down at the hands she still has poised over the register—trembling, green-tipped fingers.

I barely bite back a grin. Looks like I make her nervous, after all. It’s the best news I’ve had all day. “I like just about anything,” I finally tell her.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that about you,” she answers dryly, sounding less than impressed.

“Oh, really? And what exactly have you heard—” I glance down at the black-and-silver name tag pinned to her shirt. “—Ophelia?”

She rolls her eyes. “I think you’ve got a pretty good idea what people say about you, Z. Now are you going to stand there all night batting your eyes at me or are you actually going to order something for your harem?”

“My harem?”

She nods toward Lila and her friends, and this time the look on her face lets me know just how unimpressed she is. Damn. Looks like my reputation really has preceded me. Or Lila’s has. She’s one of the winter regulars who have a lot more money than sense. Somehow I doubt she’s got the intelligence—or basic good manners—to be nice to the barista. Which means I really might be screwed here.

It matters more than it should. Normally I don’t give a shit what people say about me—and they say a lot, especially since Luc, Ash, and I turned pro—but something about the way Ophelia’s looking at me is making my palms sweat. It’s a first for me, and one I’m not all that happy about.

“I barely know those girls.”

“Like that’s supposed to impress me?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all day. “What would impress you?”

She eyes me disdainfully. “Way more than what you’ve got to offer.”

So much for honesty. That’s why I work so hard not to put myself out there—it always bites you in the ass. Determined to get control of the situation, I rest my hands on the counter and lean in toward her. Then I turn it on, the look that’s gotten me every girl I’ve tried for since I lost my virginity at the age of thirteen.

Ophelia’s eyes go wide and she bobbles the cup she reached for seconds ago. This time I don’t even try to hide my smile.

“Why don’t you give me something sweet,” I suggest after she’s stared at me for a few long seconds.

“Something … sweet?” Her voice sounds strangled.

“Yeah.” A few strands of hair have escaped her bun, and I reach out to stroke an errant curl before winding it around my finger. “And hot. It’s pretty cold outside.”

“You want—” Her voice breaks. She’s breathless now, and I know this is it. I’ve got her.

I feel a little twinge deep inside—one that I might identify as disappointment if I ever let myself hope for anything—but I ignore it. This is exactly what I wanted, after all. “You want something sweet and hot?”

“That is how I like my coffee.” Among other things, my look tells her. Not that I’m cheesy enough to say shit like that. But I can imply with the best of them.

Ophelia’s eyes are a little hazy now, a little unfocused, but she nods jerkily. Then, before I can say anything else, she heads over to the espresso machines and fumbles around for a minute or two. She doesn’t look toward me once, and when she comes back, she’s carrying a large glass of iced coffee.

Confused, I look back and forth between her and the drink. “That doesn’t look very warm,” I finally tell her.

“Yeah, well, I made an executive decision. It looked like you needed something to cool yourself down with.” And then it’s her turn to lean over the counter. I have a quick second to curse the turtleneck—I’d really love to see what this girl’s tits look like—right before she dumps the coffee all over the front of my pants.

Chapter 2

Ophelia

He doesn’t react right away. And when he does, it’s not at all the way I expect.

Maybe it’s the insulated snowboarding pants or maybe it’s his too-cool attitude, but Z doesn’t screech or yell or even curse. He just looks at me, that too-gorgeous-for-his-own-or-anyone-else’s-good face of his frozen in surprise. Whether it’s because I dumped the drink on him or because he’s finally figured out that I played him, I don’t know and I don’t care. All that matters is he gets the message and leaves me the hell alone.

Still, some instinct deep inside me whispers that not much surprises him. The fact that I did makes me happier than it should.

And then he smiles, and I know I’m right. Because it isn’t that come-sit-on-the-big-bad-wolf’s-lap-and-let-him-take-a-little-bite-out-of-you smile that he leveled at me a few minutes ago, the one that weakened my knees and nearly melted my brain cells along with those of every other female in the vicinity. No, this is a real smile. A genuine grin ripe with amusement, speculation, and something else I can’t even begin to identify.

But whatever that unknown thing is, I’ve been around the block enough to know that I’m in trouble. That this meeting probably won’t end well between us. At least not for me.

Still, what was I supposed to do? Stand here with my heart pounding and my knees knocking together like some kind of ripe-for-the-picking damsel in distress?

Throw myself at him like every other girl in a hundred-mile radius does?

Let him think I’m going to be just another notch on his snowboard?

I don’t think so.

I did what had to be done, nipped his totally impersonal pursuit in the bud before it got completely out of hand. It’s not that I think I’m in any danger of falling for him—rich, pretty boys like Z make me break out in hives, especially when they’re adrenaline junkies. But still, I’m not taking any chances.

Not after what happened in New Orleans.

Just the thought of Louisiana, of Remi, has my stomach churning and my chest aching. I’ve been doing so well, too.

Minding my own business.

Getting my life back in order.

Looking into classes at the community college so I won’t be stuck in this dead-end job—this dead-end life—forever.

At least until Mr. My-Balls-Are-Even-Bigger-than-My-Bank-Account here comes along and decides to mess with me just because he can. Fury burns through my veins at the thought, and I glare at Z. Suddenly I’m itching to dump another cup of coffee on him. One that isn’t iced this time. But I need this job, and already people are pointing and staring. If my aunt or uncle passes by and sees all the commotion, I’ll be out of another job. And seeing as I’ve already gotten banished from the gift shop and one of the restaurants in the twelve days I’ve been here, I’m kind of running out of options.

Annoyed but resigned to doing some kind of damage control, I pull out a clean rag from under the counter and thrust it toward him. “Here. You can use this to clean up.”

“I’ve got it, thanks.” His grin widens, and it only ticks me off to see that my ire amuses him. At least until he reaches for the back neckline of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth movement. By the time he starts dabbing at his black pants with it, my anger is a thing of the past. And so are my brain cells.

I can’t help it. I try to stay pissed, but it’s hard to actually formulate thoughts—any thoughts—when I’m confronted with a half-naked Z.

I mean, the guy’s an alien. He has to be, because human beings just don’t look like this. At least not outside of magazine shoots and Hollywood movies. And maybe not even there.

Despite the winter weather, his skin is a soft, golden bronze that’s a testament to just how much time he spends outside with his shirt off—despite the snow. His arms are big, his shoulders well developed. And his abs. Omigod, his abs are a work of art. Forget six-pack. This guy has an eight-working-on-ten-pack, and for a second—just a second—my eyes nearly cross as I imagine what it would be like to lick a path straight from his collarbone to his navel.

He shifts a little under my scrutiny and for the first time I notice the scars he’s got—on his arm, his chest, over his ribs, down the side of his abs. Way too many scars for a normal guy to have. But he isn’t a normal guy, I remind myself. He’s a snowboarder, one known for taking crazy risks and doing really wild stunts. Is it any wonder his body is so torn up?

Not that the scars make him look bad. Just the opposite. Somehow they only reinforce the beauty of all that hard-packed muscle and golden skin. The same way his ink does. I try to look away, but I can’t. I’m fascinated by the tattoo that covers the entire right half of his upper body. It’s a wall of tribal-looking flames in shades of black and gray that start somewhere below his waist and lick all the way up to his shoulder, over his pec, and down his right arm. It’s beautiful, really well designed, and sexy as hell. On his left side is another tattoo, this one a bunch of words in a fancy black script that I’m too far away to read. But I want to. Suddenly I’m dying to know what words are so important that a guy like Z would brand himself with them.

Something tickles the side of my chin and I have an abrupt, mortifying fear that it’s my own saliva. That I am literally standing here drooling at the work of art that is Z Michaels. I dash my hand over my chin just in case. Turns out I haven’t lost complete control of my salivary glands—it’s just a lock of hair that escaped from my bun.

The realization snaps my brain back into action. A few seconds too late, but I’m a big believer in better late than never. Or at least I am now.

“You know, we have a rule here at the Lost Canyon coffee bar,” I tell him with a little flick of my fingers. “No shirts, no shoes, no service. You should probably go take care of that somewhere else.”

The dark eyes he turns on me are filled with disbelief and maybe, just maybe, a hint of respect. I’ve spent days watching how the female population around here responds to this guy, and I’m pretty sure that I’m the first one to call him on his shit since he hit puberty. Possibly even before.

Just look at the girl he came in with. He was all over her when they first walked into the lodge, just like he’s been every time I’ve caught a glimpse of him the last few days. Not that I was looking for him or anything. But still. Then, within five minutes of being here, he’s hanging out with another girl—the trashy-looking one who threw herself in his path like a pilot on a kamikaze mission.

Though, to be honest, it’s hard to blame him for the second girl. Whoever she was, the look she’d given him had told Z loud and clear that she didn’t mind if he climbed on right there in the middle of the coffee bar. My only surprise was that he hadn’t taken little Miss Can’t-Open-My-Legs-Fast-Enough up on the offer.

Not that it’s any of my business—at least not until he came up to the counter and started in on me. I don’t care if every other girl in town is okay with whatever tiny piece of Z she can sink her claws into. I don’t play that way, even if I am interested in a guy. Which, in this case, I definitely am not. After what happened with Remi, there’s no way I’d touch this guy with a fifty-foot pole.

“Wait a minute,” he asks when he finally gets his slack jaw working again. “You’re refusing to serve me, even though it’s completely your fault that I’m shirtless?”

“First of all, I offered you a towel. You’re the one who decided to take your shirt off. Second, I’m being generous and not charging you for the spilled drink. And third, I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.” Again, I flick my fingers at him like he’s a particularly annoying gnat. “So move along before someone from management sees you and has you removed from the building.”

He snorts, like even the chance of that is too far-fetched to contemplate. Which it probably is. My aunt and uncle love the fact that he comes here to practice with his friends. At dinner the other night they were talking about how to convince him to sign on with them like his friends had. So far they’ve offered him everything but part ownership in the lodge, and he’s turned it all down.

Must be nice to have so much money from endorsements and sponsorships and family that you can just walk away from a shitload of it for no reason at all.

“Management is going to remove me from the building?” he asks incredulously. “You’re the one who just dumped a drink down my pants.”

I feel the need to clarify. “On your pants, not down them.”

“I didn’t realize there was that big a difference.”

“Yeah, I bet you tell that to all the girls.”

“Only the cute ones,” he says with a smirk that somehow makes him look even sexier, a fact that annoys the crap out of me. “And for the record, the next time you want me naked, all you have to do is ask. No coffee spillage necessary.”

My blood starts to boil. Does his arrogance know no bounds? Who cares if he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen if every time he opens his mouth he sounds like a total douche?

“Dude, if I wanted you naked, I wouldn’t get you that way by dumping something cold on your crotch.” Determined to put him in his place, I shoot a glance at the area in question, making sure the look on my face is less than impressed. “It kind of defeats the purpose.”

“It’ll take more than a cold drink to defeat that purpose. But if you don’t believe me—” He lifts a brow in obvious challenge while his hands drop to the waistband of his pants.

He starts to unfasten them, but I know he’s bluffing, that he’s just trying to get a reaction out of me. So I stand there, eyes narrowed and arms crossed over my chest while I wait for him to back down. Because there’s no way he’ll actually strip in the middle of this coffee bar. Not now, not in front of all these people.

Except—

“Hey, stop that!” I all but leap across the counter at him, and this time I’m the one grabbing his waistband. Except I’m tugging his pants back up as I try my best to ignore where my hands are.

The smirk has evolved into a full-blown, cocky grin. “So, what do you say we take this somewhere more private?” he teases. He rests his hands lightly over mine, and even though he’s a conceited ass, I still have to resist the urge to fan myself. Z with the wattage turned up is a force to be reckoned with.

Not that I’m going to let him see that.

“Like a holding cell? Public nudity is against the rules and the law.”

“I was thinking more like your room, but if you have a thing for public exhibitionism, who am I to argue?”

“That’s it. You need to leave.” I pull my hands away and reach for the hand sanitizer sitting on the counter next to the register. God only knows what I could catch from having my fingers anywhere near this guy’s pants.

“You still haven’t gotten me my drink. Plus I need three Power O’s.”

I sigh. “Do I really have to go over the whole no-shirt thing again?” I glance around the room, praying for someone—anyone—to come up to the counter so I can switch my attention off Z and to an actual customer. But either no one’s thirsty or they’re having too good a time watching the show to want to interrupt it.

“You’re not actually serious about that, are you?”

“I’m always serious.”

He looks like he’s got something to say to that, but before he can get the words out of his mouth, he gets rushed by the girl from earlier and two other guys. They look vaguely familiar, and after a minute of staring at them like a moron, I realize it’s because my aunt introduced me to them on my first day here. They’re part of the group of snowboarders and skiers Lost Canyon partially sponsors.

It’s no surprise that it takes me a minute to place them. I’d felt like I’d fallen into an alternate universe that day, one where my whole life had gone topsy-turvy batshit crazy. How could I not when things had changed so fast? When what I wanted—needed—most had ceased to exist in the blink of an eye?

“Dude, what are you doing?” the tall blond guy demands, interrupting my pity party. “Put your clothes back on before you scare the new girl away.”

“Yeah, man,” the dark-haired one chimes in. “Walk around like that long enough and some of the snow cougars are going to start shoving dollar bills in your pants.”

Z flips them off, but when one of them hands him a T-shirt, he takes it and shrugs it on. I feel an instant of regret. Though I hassled him about being shirtless, it’s almost a shame to see all that beautiful skin get covered up again. Almost.

“Hey. I’m Cam.” The girl waves a hand in my face, and I immediately jerk my gaze over to hers. I’m embarrassed to be caught gawking at Z, but she doesn’t seem mad. In fact, she looks amused as she thrusts a hand out to me.

I shake it automatically. “I’m Ophelia.”

“Cool name.”

Not really. “Thanks.”

“This is Ash.” She points to the tall blond guy with the floppy hair. “And this is Lucas. And you’ve already met Z. We all ride together.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too. It’s hard not to like a girl who doesn’t take Z’s shit.”

“Hey! Whose side are you on?” Z demands.

She ignores him, looks at me curiously. “So, where are you from?”

“New Orleans.”

“No way! I love that city!” Lucas tells me. “How come you don’t have an accent?”

“Who says I don’t?” I lay the southern girl on thick.

“That’s better,” he says with a nod. “I’ve always wanted to go for Mardi Gras, but it’s always in the middle of competition season.”

“How ’bout you?” Z speaks up for the first time since his friends came over. I turn to look at him, then glance quickly away. I don’t like the way he’s staring at me, all intense and predatory, like a jungle cat playing with his food before he devours it. “You’ve probably been doing Mardi Gras for years.”

“Nope. It’s not really my thing.” The lie almost sticks in my throat, because for years no one loved the two weeks before Fat Tuesday more than I. The parades, the crowds, the music, the beads, the booze. What’s not to like? Everything, it turns out.

“What?” Now they’re all looking at me like I’m crazy. “Who lives in freaking New Orleans and doesn’t go out for Mardi Gras?” Z demands.

By this time, memories are swamping me and my muscles are so taut that any sudden movement on my part might snap them right off the bone. I try to keep calm, though. Nothing good will come from dredging up the past. Or from letting them see how much this subject stresses me out. Annoyed with myself, with him, with the whole damn situation, I tilt my head up and give him my best I’m-sorry-annoying-little-gnat-did-you-have-something-to-say-to-me look. “Me. Is that okay with you?”

“No.” He looks bemused. “Not really.”

I have no answer for that, so I don’t say anything, and neither does anyone else. An awkward silence descends. Once again I look desperately around for customers, but there’s still no one. So I just wait it out, pretending I don’t hate awkward silences. Pretending I know why Z and his friends are standing around watching me.

Finally Lucas says, “We’re going to a party tonight. You want to come?”

I’m not sure who’s more surprised by the invite, me or Z. I guess it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going. I have to work. Plus, I have no interest in sitting around in a room of strangers all night, watching while every girl in the vicinity hits on Z like he’s some kind of sex god on parade. I’d rather eat a bug—or twelve.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “But I have to work.”

“You can join us later if you want.” He pulls out his phone. “Give me your number and I’ll text you the address.”

“I, uh—” I look to Z for help, but he’s just grinning at me. Like he knows there’s no way uptight little Ophelia would ever give a snowboarder her digits, let alone meet him at a party somewhere.

Before I can think better of it, I rattle off my new number. Luc enters it into his phone, and seconds later my own phone dings to alert me that I’ve got a text message. I glance at Z and this time the smirk is gone from his face. Instead, he looks pissed, and I can’t figure out why, unless he doesn’t want me at the party.

Which is fine. I’m not planning on going anyway. I ignore the instinctive twinge of hurt that I’ve got absolutely no reason to feel. It’s not like I thought he was hitting on me because he actually liked me or anything. More like I’m female and breathing. He probably doesn’t know any other way to talk to women.

I keep my answer noncommittal. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“You should come,” Ash tells me. “We’ll take care of you.” Z’s scowl deepens.

I’m saved from answering when—finally—a woman with two little kids approaches the counter. “Do you make hot chocolate?” she asks, staring up at the menu above my head.

I turn to her like the lifeline she is. I’m more than ready for Z and his friends to leave me alone. In fact, all I really want to do is finish this shift and head back to my room. I’ve got research to do. Sure, there’s no hurry, since I have a few months before transfer apps have to be in, but still. The sooner I get started on them, the sooner I’ll be warm again. I might not be able to handle going back to New Orleans again, but there’s nothing keeping me from Arizona. Or New Mexico. Or Hawaii, for that matter. I’m not picky. As long as it’s somewhere warm and is handing out a buttload of financial aid, I’m up for pretty much any school. Especially if it means I never have to make another latte or sweep up another floor again.

Ignoring the little voice inside me that’s calling me a coward for ditching the party, I give the lady my most professional look. After what happened earlier, I can’t afford to make a mistake. Not unless I want to blow the chance to save money that comes with working—and living rent free—at Lost Canyon during the busy season. “We do. Regular, peppermint, and caramel.”

The little boy at her feet starts to bounce in excitement. “I want caramel. With lots of whipped cream.”

I can’t help but grin at him. “I can do lots of whipped cream. And chocolate shavings on top, if you’d like.”

“Ooh, I like. I like!”

I glance up to see Cam waving good-bye to me. Lucas points to his phone and mouths, “Text me,” as the four of them drift back to their table. They’re laughing and joking around, completely comfortable with each other in a way only true friends can be. It makes me ache a little, makes me think of Remi and the way things used to be with him. With us.

I curse myself as I take the rest of the woman’s order, then get started on her drinks. I try not to think about him, about the way things used to be. About the way they were supposed to be. What should have been doesn’t matter, only what is.

Pushing the past out of my mind, or at least to the back of it, where I don’t have to think about it every second, I top the three hot chocolates with extra whipped cream and chocolate shavings, just like I promised. As I slide them onto the counter, I watch Z and his friends gather up their stuff and head for the door without a backward glance.

Which is exactly how it should be, I remind myself fiercely. I’m not here to make friends or go to parties or hang out with hot guys. I’m supposed to be healing, getting my life in some semblance of order, making plans for a whole new future. It’s the smart thing to do. The right thing to do. Something tells me Z and the rest of them don’t know the first thing about the kind of desperation that’s riding me hard. Just one more reason for me to stay the hell away from them.

I reach into my pocket for my phone and delete the text Luc sent me with the party address so I won’t be tempted to go anywhere but back to my room after my shift is done. And still, as I watch as the four of them tumble, laughing, out into the snow, there’s a little part of me that wishes I could go. That wishes I could be like everybody else up here.

But I’m not, and I’m afraid I won’t be, ever again. It’s my own fault, and still it bothers me. Not missing the party, because it’s not like I’d have anyone to talk to there anyway. But the realization that there’s still a part of me that cares, that hopes, that wants to be normal. I thought I’d left that girl behind in New Orleans, and finding out that I didn’t …

Yeah, finding out that I didn’t sucks all the way around.

Chapter 3

Z

I can’t sleep.

I should be able to. I drank enough tonight—last night, this morning, whenever—that I should be passed out cold with the rest of them. But my buzz wore off sometime in the last couple of hours, and without it there’s no chance I’m going to be able to sack out. At least not anytime soon.

I push off the couch, pick my way through Luc, Cam, Ash, and some random girl Ash brought back here with us after the party. Usually I’m the one with the random hookups, but tonight I wasn’t interested in anything but getting good and fucked up.

Not knowing what I want to do, knowing only that if I stay in here much longer I’m going to flip the fuck out, I head to the mud room. Pull on some boarding pants and a ski jacket before moving into the garage and take one of my favorite boards off the wall. I should wait until someone’s awake to spot me—boarding on your own is a suicide mission, especially with the effects of last night’s binge drinking still making my head a little foggy. But boarding while I’m a little drunk is nothing I haven’t done before, and besides, I just don’t have it in me to wait. Not right now. Not today.

Not to mention the fact that if I wait for Cam or one of the others, they’re just going to want to talk about shit, and I definitely don’t have it in me to do that. Touchy-feely crap makes me break out in hives.

After slipping into my boots, I head out to the side of the house, where I had a half-pipe built pretty much the second the snow started sticking to the ground. It’s a far cry from boarding the backcountry, but it’ll do for now. Maybe if I do enough runs, I’ll finally be able to sleep.

With no one around to watch, I don’t put on a practice helmet. Don’t check my board to make sure it’s solid before strapping in. Don’t do any of the things I know I should when planning to try a new trick. Instead, I climb to the top of the pipe and lock into place.

Part of me wants to start big, to just bust out and see what I can do, but the tricks—and the big air—will come easier if I’m warmed up first. So that’s what I do. I lay down a few lazy runs, little more than carving up and down the sides of the pipe with a few 360s and 540s thrown in to keep me from getting too bored. Not great for getting me out of my head, but good enough to get the blood pumping, which is enough for now.

After my fourth run, I pause at the top of the half-pipe and look up at the sky. It’s midnight black streaked with purple and gray; even the thought of dawn is a good hour away. There are some stars in the sky—not too many that aren’t obscured by the clouds or drowned out by the lights over the half-pipe, but I can see a few. They’re beautiful. Bright. And clear, so clear. Like there’s nothing cloudy or foggy or fucked up about them.

I don’t know why, but looking at them makes me think of Ophelia. Which is stupid, because she’s a lot of things—hot and tough and obviously smart—but she’s a long way from clear. In fact, something tells me that she’s just as messed up as I am. She didn’t say or do anything to give me that idea, besides dumping a drink all over me, but the way she holds herself and the look in her eyes tell me there’s a lot more to her than she’s got on display.

Which is exactly why I’m going to back the hell off, and fast. I don’t have the effort to invest in her, not when there are a million other girls out there who aren’t as much work, and who’ll be a hell of a lot easier to forget. I’ve got more than enough crap in my own life to deal with without worrying about what she’s got going on, too.

That probably makes me a creep, but to be honest, I don’t give a shit. That’s the way it is. The way it has to be.

This time when I shove off, I decide to go for it. I push myself, aim for big air, and catch it the second time I hit the top of the half-pipe. I use it to propel me faster down the pipe, and the next time I reach the top I let loose with a cab double cork 1260. There’s no way I’m going to land it—it’s pretty much impossible—and I brace for the fall. For the pain that’s as much a part of me as the guilt.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, I land the trick—the first time I’ve ever managed to stick it—and keep going. Up the pipe into a quick front flip 720 and then back down again. This time when I reach the top I do a triple back rodeo. It’s a crazy thing to do, especially without a spotter and in the dark, but I don’t give a shit. Because those moments when I’m spinning—when I’m flying—make everything else worth it.

I manage to complete the rotation, but I’m coming down fast and hard. Again I brace for the pain, anticipate it. Again it doesn’t come. I hit hard but manage to stay on my feet and ride backward to the end of the half-pipe.

A muffled shout sounds behind me, and I turn to see Ash standing there watching me, his fist in the air. Then he’s running toward me and I’m bending down, unlocking my board. Pretending to be busy so I don’t have to make eye contact with him.

“Holy shit, man! That was fucking amazing.”

I shrug, flip my board over. Do the check I should have done forty minutes ago. Everything’s solid, but I kind of wish it wasn’t. Then I’d have something to do with my hands, with myself, when he claps a hand down on my back.

“Seriously. What the fuck? Cam told me you busted out with an inverted double cork yesterday, but she didn’t say anything about a triple back rodeo. When the hell did you figure out how to do that? And how the shit did you get air like that off the half-pipe?”

“That’s the first time I ever landed it.” The first time I ever attempted it, too, but I’m not about to tell Ash that. If I do, he’ll try to get all up in my head and demand to know why I’m trying shit like that out here by myself. And telling him I was expecting—not trying, just expecting—to fuck it up and add a few more scars to what is an already impressive collection is out of the question. He’d tell Cam and Luc, and then I’d never get a second to myself again.

“Well, it was sick. You think you can do it again?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure how I did it this time, to be honest. I thought I was overrotated.”

“You were. I was sure you were going ass over teakettle. But somehow you always manage to land on your feet when I least expect it.”

He starts hiking up the half-pipe, his mouth going a mile a minute. For a second I think about staying right here and waiting for him to wind down. Ash is an awesome guy and the best snowboarder I know. Smart, dedicated, and crazy talented, he’s always thinking about the next ride, the next trick, the next step to get himself to the top of the Olympic podium. Whereas the Olympics are the last place I want to be. The X Games, maybe. But the Olympics? So not my scene. And it’s not like a guy like me belongs at the top of a podium anyway.

“Are you coming?” he calls down to me. Eventually I nod and start the trek back to the top of the half-pipe. He’s still talking about the triple I just pulled off, but in an effort to stay sane, I’m only half listening. Ash has a tendency to take all this shit too seriously, and he is way keyed up right now. I’ll be lucky if every boarder in North America doesn’t know I landed that trick before breakfast. Guess I’m lucky he doesn’t have a video camera on him.

We ride for hours. Ash throws down a couple of switch 1080s, then spends the rest of the time trying out different positions to get the biggest air out of the pipe. I, on the other hand, just fuck around, pull some 360s or 720s. Do a few back rodeos, but nothing like what I was doing earlier. When I do that shit, it’s never for an audience.

Eventually Cam and Luc come out to join us. They’re both looking a little worse for wear, but then neither of them holds their booze as well as Ash and me, so that’s a pretty regular thing. We take turns on the pipe, Cam and Ash being totally methodical, working on every little thing, while Luc and I goof off. At one point the girl Ash brought home comes out and whines about being bored. I ignore her—she’s Ash’s problem. Only he’s too wrapped up in his boarding to pay any attention to her, either. Finally she gets the hint and takes off.

Then it’s just the four of us, exactly how it’s always been. Exactly how I like it. I don’t give a shit about much—my family’s pretty much a joke at this point and since I came into my trust funds this year, boarding is more of a hobby than anything else, despite my numerous sponsors—but I’d do anything for these three people. Know they’d do anything for me, even if I don’t deserve it.

I’m hanging with Luc at the bottom of the pipe, watching as Ash does the most boring run ever, when Luc glances over at me. “So, you really ate it with that girl last night.”

Against my will, Ophelia’s dark green eyes flash into my head—along with her really fantastic rack. I shove the images right back out. “Whatever.”

“No, really. I’ve never seen a girl react to you like that. In fact, you still smell a little like coffee.”

He’s laughing now, and when Ash coasts to a stop beside us he demands, “What’s so funny?”

Luc shrugs. “Just thinking of Z’s face last night when that chick dumped the drink on him.”

Ash starts laughing, too, just as Cam pushes off for her run. She does a nice double cork right off the block, but I can’t concentrate on what she’s doing when my two best friends are giving their best impressions of hyenas.

“I know, right?” Ash agrees opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

“I did not look like that.”

“You so totally did. It was awesome.” Luc’s grin is so wide it might actually split his face. When I don’t respond, he goads, “You must be losing your touch. Usually girls can’t wait to drop their panties around you.”

“Right,” Ash agrees. “First Ophelia, and then he comes back here by himself last night. Maybe we should check, make sure the pod people haven’t gotten to him.” He pretends to look for a chip at the back of my neck.

I shrug him off, wish I could shrug off his words as easily. But that’s the second time in the last twenty-four hours someone’s said I’m losing my touch. It’s annoying, because it’s not true, and because if I don’t have sex to lose myself in, what the fuck do I have?

“Ophelia’s not important,” I tell them. “She’s nuts.”

For some reason, Luc only grins more widely. “You remember her name.”

“It’s Ophelia. Kind of hard to forget Hamlet’s crazy girlfriend.” But again, a picture of her, all tough and smart and sexy, forms in the front of my mind. Again I try to ignore it, to shrug it off. I can’t quite manage it, though, especially with Luc and Ash riding me about her so hard.

“You manage to forget all the other girls pretty easily,” Luc taunts. “Guess this is what happens when a girl hands you your ass in front of everyone.”

“She didn’t ‘hand me my ass.’ ”

“Sure looked that way to me,” Ash said.

“Me too,” Luc agrees. “Admit it. You got owned.”

Cam finishes her run and comes to stand next to the rest of us. “Are you guys going to stand here gossiping all day or are we going to ride?” she demands.

“We’re going to ride.” I pick up my board and start the hike back up to the top of the half-pipe.

“Yeah, well, looks like that’s all you’ll be riding for a while,” Luc crows. “Since Ophelia saw right through you.”

It’s the wording that gets to me, the idea that Ophelia could have seen anything other than what I wanted her to. I turn back around, glare at Luc. “You’re nuts. I can have that girl in bed anytime I want to.”

“Sure you can,” Luc tells me.

“I can,” I insist. She might have told me off, but I felt the heat between us. Shit like that doesn’t just go away if you ignore it. It gets bigger, wilder. Hotter. Until the only way to put out the flames is to give in to them. “I can have her anytime I want.”

Luc snorts. “Dude. Way to sound like a rapist.”

The words hit me like a blow, and before I can try to pretend they don’t matter, Cam elbows him. Hard. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she whispers. “What’s wrong with you?”

I know she doesn’t mean for me to hear, but I do, and that just makes everything more awkward. The only thing worse than living with all that shit with my sister is having my friends tiptoe around it. Like I’m some kind of pussy who can’t deal.

Then again, maybe I can’t, because there’s no way I’m touching this conversation. Not right now, when it’s all I can do not to throw myself off the fucking half-pipe.

“Yeah, right,” Ash says, going in for the rescue like he always does. Usually I don’t put up with it, but today I don’t say anything as he continues, “When have you ever known Z to have to do more than crook his finger to get a girl to take her clothes off?”

“I think you’re all delusional,” Cam snarls. “Z can’t actually have every girl he wants.” I can tell she’s thinking about those moments at the top of the half-pipe when I almost kissed her, almost used her, just because she was there. And available. And willing.

That just makes me feel worse, though. This conversation—this whole morning—is getting way too serious. Time to lighten things up and remind them that I can deal just fine. “Maybe not,” I say with a deliberate smirk, “but I can have Ophelia.”

I sound like a total douche, but better that than a pussy.

Except Luc calls me on it. “Oh, yeah? You so sure about that?”

“Absolutely.” No backing down now. A guy can only take so much sympathy before he goes insane. “Give me a week and I’ll prove it.”

“Are you seriously betting on whether or not you can fuck a girl?” Cam demands, looking outraged. “What is this, high school?”

“No, not high school. The stakes are higher,” I tell her, warming to the idea. She looks pissed, which isn’t a bad thing. Because if Cam thinks I’m an asshole, then she won’t be throwing herself at me anymore and I won’t have to worry about fucking up and taking what she freely offers. “I bet my Burton Landlord against Luc’s Flow Darwin that I can get Ophelia out of her panties before the competition next weekend.”

Luc whoops. “You’re on!”

“Dude?” It’s Ash’s turn to elbow Luc. “Are you sure you want to take that bet?”

“Damn straight. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on that board since he bought it.”

“As if. We both know I’ll be adding your Darwin to my collection sometime in the next seven days.”

“Whatever,” he shoots back. “I saw the way she looked at you. But a guy can dream, I guess.”

Cam interrupts the bragging contest with a disgusted snort. “You guys are so gross. I can’t believe I’m friends with you.” Then she’s off, storming up to the top of the half-pipe even though it’s totally my turn.

Luc watches her go, and though he tries to hide it, Ash and I can both see how he feels about her. Thank fuck I never have to worry about being that whipped.

Cam slams through her run, catching some big air and hitting a couple of tricks she’s always struggled with. Losing her temper always makes her a better rider.

Once she clears the end of the pipe, it’s my turn. I plan on taking it easy—I’ve already been at this for hours, doing some pretty strenuous stuff—but just as I push off, April’s face flashes through my mind.

I don’t let myself think of her often. It hurts too bad. But this time of year, this week, it’s hard to think of anything else, especially when my friends are making such a point of not saying anything about her at all.

So I close my eyes and think of how she was the last time I saw her. Her dark hair banded into two long pigtails. Her purple jacket a vivid splash against the snow. Her—

I cut the thought off before it can form.

Push off before I can sink too far into the memories.

I hit the first trick hard, but it’s not enough. I need more. More challenge. More rush. More—

I launch myself into a 1440 to make the shit in my head disappear. It’s too soon, though, and I know it even as my board leaves the pipe. And still I push it, still I go for the extra rotation.

I get it, but I’m too low. I come down too fast, hit way too hard. Ash’s shout mingles with Luc’s and Cam’s, and the last thing I hear before blacking out is the sound of their footsteps running straight for me.

Chapter 4

Ophelia

I shrug out of the hospital gown, trying to ignore how freaking cold it is in the stupid clinic. How freaking cold it is everywhere in this godforsaken city. It’s like no one in Park City knows what heat is or something. Or maybe it’s just that my blood is too thin from all those years of living in a place where the average temperature is eighty degrees and the average humidity level is about a thousand percent.

Either way, I’m freezing. I reach for my turtleneck, slide it on, then follow it with my jeans, sweater, jacket, and scarf. None of the layers seem to help, though. I’m still one degree away from having my teeth chatter and my fingers turn blue.

There’s a knock on the door and I turn to see the nurse from earlier standing there. She’s got that I’m-so-happy-I-must-be-on-really-good-drugs smile on her face that so many of the people in this town seem to wear all the time. “The X-rays all turned out, Ophelia. You’re free to go.”

Thank God. I slide my feet into the thick socks and Uggs I just spent too much of my first paycheck on, then snatch my purse out of the visitor’s chair. This place gives me the creeps.

The nurse’s eyes widen at my full-out charge for the door, and she quickly steps aside to avoid getting run over. Smart woman. I have no intention of stopping until I’m out of this damn place—even the snow outside looks good in comparison.

To be fair, there’s nothing wrong with the clinic per se. Just the memories that being here brings up. But if the X-rays show what the doctor thinks they will—that the screws from the last surgery are healing exactly as they should be—then I won’t have to come back here for a long time. That’s something, anyway.

“The doctor will call you later today or tomorrow to let you know the results of the X-rays,” the nurse calls after me.

I lift my hand in a wave to let her know I heard her, but I don’t stop. The ball of nerves that’s been inside me since I got off the bus this morning has grown to epic proportions. I’m nauseous and dizzy and desperate to escape, as much from my past as from this damn clinic.

I take a wrong turn, end up racing down a long hallway. I make another turn when I get to the end of the hallway, and then another one, all the time getting a little more frantic, a little more freaked out. I feel stupid, weak, ridiculous, but I swear if I don’t get out of here I’m going to lose it completely.

The sign at the end of the corridor says the exit is to the right, so I make another turn and end up plowing full speed into what feels like a brick wall.

I stumble and probably would have fallen—like a complete idiot—except the brick wall reaches out and grabs my shoulders. “Hey there. You okay?”

If possible, my stomach gets even tighter. I know that voice. I look up from a chest encased in a tight black T-shirt into blue eyes that somehow manage to look both wicked and concerned. “What are you doing here?” I demand, the words popping out of my mouth before I can think better of them.

Z isn’t offended, though. He just gives me that yes-I-can-get-you-to-drop-your-panties-with-just-a-look grin of his even as he makes sure that I’m steady. When it becomes obvious that I am—or at least as steady as I’m going to get—he pulls his hands away. But not before rubbing his fingers gently up and down my arms.

There are three thick layers of fabric between his hands and my skin, and yet I swear I can feel the heat of his touch. It’s crazy, but it’s true. My arms still burn where he was touching me. I try to shrug it off, to pretend I don’t feel it, but I never have been very good at lying. Even to myself.

Z points at his forehead, and the stark white bandage that covers the left corner of it. “Hazard of being a snowboarder.”

Something about his voice and demeanor—soothing, solid, sexy—settles me. The panic recedes, and my brain cells start firing again, not a moment too soon.

“What? Having to wear really ugly Band-Aids? Or having to catch girls who all but throw themselves at you?”

He laughs. “A little bit of both, actually.”

“Yeah, I bet.” I take a deep breath and a step back. Then regret both. The breath because he smells really good—like pine and cinnamon and, randomly, oranges—and the step back because now I’m far enough away for his eyes to skim over me. Which they do. Not in a rude way, like he’s trying to get a look at my body, but in a hey-what-brings-you-to-a-medical-clinic kind of way. And since that’s the last thing I want to talk about, I find myself tensing up all over again as I wait for the inevitable questions.

In the end, he doesn’t ask them, though. Instead, he points down the hall to a red-and-white Exit sign. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

The fact that he reads me so easily has me bristling. “How do you know I’m looking for anything?”

“Believe me, I know the look. You’re as desperate to get out of here as I am.”

I can’t stand that he can see through me that easily, especially when I pride myself on my ability to hide my emotions. “Maybe I was just looking for the bathroom,” I tell him, annoyed.

His indigo eyes narrow suspiciously. “Were you?”

“No.” I don’t know why I admit it. At least not until he smiles and the damn thing lights up his whole perfect face. For the first time, I actually get why the women line up to throw themselves at him. The knowledge only makes me more wary, and I take a second step back.

“So,” he says, brows raised. “Are you ready to blow this pop stand?”

I start to turn him down, to make something up to get away from him, but the fact of the matter is that I’m breaking out in a sweat despite the cold. If I don’t get out of this clinic soon, they’re going to have to carry me out—after medicating me into a drug-induced stupor. “More than ready,” I finally admit.

“Me too.” Z puts his hand on my lower back, starts to guide me toward the door. I shrug him off, shoot him a glare, but he just grins. “I had to try.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

We push the door open and walk into the waiting room. Before I can do more than take one step forward, we’re surrounded.

“What did the doctor say?” Cam demands, poking at Z’s forehead. He winces but other than that tolerates her concern.

“Tell me you don’t have a concussion, man. You’ll be out for weeks.” Ash looks miserable at the very idea.

“I’m good,” Z answers. “Just a little bump.”

“A little bump? You were knocked out for three or four minutes!”

“I’m fine, Cam.” He reaches out and pats her head. “I swear.”

“Excellent! X Games invites are going out soon, and with the Olympic trials next month, it would totally suck if you were grounded,” Luc tells him, then glances at me curiously. “What are you doing here, Ophelia?”

“I had a doctor’s appointment. Z was just showing me the way out.” I pull out my cell phone, glance at the time. I’ve got fifteen minutes before the next bus leaves for the resort, which means I need to move it if I want to get to the bus stop in time. “Thanks,” I tell him before heading toward the door. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Hey, wait!” Luc says, jogging after me.

I don’t stop until I hit the sliding glass doors at the front of the clinic. The second I step outside, the tension leaves me in a rush. I take a few gulps of air before turning to look at Luc, who is watching me curiously.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Where are you rushing off to?”

“Back to the lodge. I’ve got things to do.”

“Are you working today?”

I pause for a moment, consider my answer. But since I haven’t gotten any better at lying in the last five minutes, I opt for the truth. “No.”

“Awesome. Then you can come with us. Since Z’s okay, we’re going to catch a late lunch and a movie.”

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t think,” he says. “Just come on. It’ll be fun.”

I know I should say no, but I haven’t been to a movie in months. Haven’t done anything fun in months, if I’m being honest. And Z’s friends seem nice enough, even if he is a total hound.

“What movie?” I ask as I study him through narrowed eyes.

He names a thriller I’ve been dying to see, and my resistance drops another notch. Still, I’m no pushover. “What’s in it for you?”

“What do you mean?” He’s wearing a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth expression.

I cross my arms over my chest, refuse to give an inch. “You know exactly what I mean.”

It’s his turn to study me. Finally he says, “I don’t care what he says. Z took a pretty hard hit today. If we don’t distract him, he’ll be right back on the half-pipe, and honestly, I don’t think he’s up for it.”

“What do I have to do with that?”

“He’s interested in you. If you come along, he won’t be in any hurry to rush off and try to kill himself again.”

His words are light, but there’s an underlying grimness to them that tells me there’s more going on here than meets the eye. “So I’m bait?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He grins engagingly, and despite myself, I’m suckered in.

“Fine, I’ll go. Only because I want to see the movie. Not because I want to spend time with Z.”

“Of course not.”

“I’m serious. I’m not going to fuck him to keep him off the slopes, so if that’s what you’re thinking—”

“It’s not. I swear. In fact, I’m pretty much counting on you not fucking him. I—”

“Hey, are you two about done with your secret little exchange?” Z asks as he walks up to us, followed closely by Cam and Ash.

“No secrets,” Luc tells him. “I was just convincing Ophelia to eat and catch the movie with us.”

Z’s brows nearly touch his hairline as he turns to me. “Oh, yeah?”

I like that he’s surprised, though I have no idea why. “Yeah.”

He stares at me for long seconds, those cool blue eyes of his so intense that it takes every ounce of willpower I have to hold his gaze. But if I learned anything in the years I spent hanging on the streets, it’s that guys like this don’t respect girls who back down. So I don’t. Instead, I lift my chin and wait for him to speak first.

I expect a sexual innuendo, maybe an advance. Instead, when he finally does speak, all he says is, “Cool.” Then he brushes past me and heads for the parking lot without a backward glance.

I watch him go.

So much for fending off advances. Looks like he got the message yesterday after all. I breathe a sigh of relief—or at least that’s what I tell myself it is—as I follow him and the others to the car.

* * *

I’m in the bathroom at the movie theater washing my hands after eating entirely too much popcorn when Cam walks in, the restroom door bouncing against the wall as she pushes through it.

“Hey,” I say, smiling at her in the mirror.

She doesn’t smile back.

In fact, she ignores me completely—just as she ignores the stalls lining the back wall of the bathroom. Instead, she walks to the sink next to mine and starts washing her hands just as I turn to dry mine.

Silence echoes off the cool tile walls, and though it makes me uncomfortable, I’m not going to be the one to break it. I already tried that—both in here and at the table where she spent most of the evening playing I-can’t-see-or-hear-Ophelia—and I’m done. Sure, it’d be nice to have a friend here in Siberia, and last night I thought that she might be that friend, but hey, whatever. No skin off my nose if she wants to pull that whole I’m-a-bitch-who-hates-you-for-no-reason routine. She’s not the first to throw it at me and probably won’t be the last.

I toss the paper towel into the trash basket and head for the exit without saying another word to her. But just as my hand closes around the door handle, she says, “You’re nothing to him. You know that, right?”

For a second I think about just continuing to walk. But if I do, this thing is going to grow by epic proportions. She’ll think I am interested in Z, which will just lead to more drama. And if there’s one thing I do not need more of in my life, it’s drama. The last year has given me more than enough of it, thank you very much.

“Why should I care?” I finally say, turning around to face her. “He’s nothing to me.”

She snorts. “Yeah, right. I’ve heard that before.”

“I’m sure you have. But that doesn’t make it any less true coming from me. I’m not interested in Z.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure. He’s not exactly my type.”

Cam laughs at that. “If there’s one thing hanging around with Z has proven to me through the years, it’s that he’s every woman’s type.”

“Even yours?”

She stiffens, looks away. “No. Not mine. We’re just friends.”

“You sure about that?” I deliberately echo the question she had just posed to me.

“Yeah. Pretty sure. He’s not my type, either.” This time when she looks at me, her scowl has been replaced by a genuine smile. “I think I might actually be starting to like you.”

I raise my brows at her. “Is that such a shock?”

“Actually, it kind of is.” She reaches over and pulls the door open. “I spend so much time hanging out with guys—between those idiots out there and my four brothers—I barely remember how to act when I’m with another girl.”

“Yeah, well, not glaring at her like you want to rip her head off is usually a good start.”

She laughs as she follows me through the door. “I’ll remember that.”

“Good.”

We’re almost to the lobby where the guys are waiting when Cam grabs my arm. I turn to look at her questioningly, and for the first time since I met her she looks uncertain. “I don’t normally rat out my friends, but I figure you should know. Z made a bet with Luc that he could fuck you before the end of next week.”

At first I think she’s joking, but the expression on her face is totally serious. “He made a bet?” I ask, completely blindsided, though I don’t know why. Z is exactly the kind of guy to do something like that. And yet I’m still surprised and disgusted and maybe even … hurt?

Ugh. Now I’m just being stupid. I can’t stand the idea that I can be hurt by such a douche bag—can’t stand the idea that I can be hurt at all, if I’m honest—so I push even the thought of it to the very back of my mind. Instead, I concentrate on the sheer ridiculousness of what Cam is telling me.

“I know, I know. It makes him sound like a total tool—”

“Oh, just a little,” I tell her sarcastically.

“Believe me, I’m not defending him. Or Luc. But there are a lot of reasons Z is the way he is. Still, I figured you deserved to know. He can be pretty charming when he wants to be.”

“Really? I haven’t seen that at all.”

Cam laughs, a full-bodied, I-can’t-believe-you-said-that-but-I’m-so-glad-you-did kind of laugh, and somehow I find myself laughing with her, despite the fact that Z is an even bigger creep than I thought.

“So, what did he bet?” I ask when we finally calm down.

I’m thinking twenty bucks or dinner or even just bragging rights, so I’m totally taken aback when Cam answers, “His favorite snowboard.”

For a second I don’t even know what to say, what to feel. What kind of people are these that they can so casually bet away something that costs six, seven, even eight hundred dollars? I didn’t grow up on the streets or anything, but we always struggled at the end of the month. And where I come from, seven or eight hundred dollars is a lot of money. Throwing that away just because of pride or whatever the hell made him make that bet seems absurd. Not to mention arrogant as hell.

“Wow,” I say eventually. “He must be pretty confident that he’s going to get to fuck me.”

For a second Cam looks pained, like she wants to say something else, something more. But then she just shrugs. “He’s got reason to be. I don’t think he meant any harm by it, but I still thought you had the right to know.”

I’ve got a million retorts on the tip of my tongue, but Cam is Z’s friend. She’s loyal to him. And she’s already stretched that loyalty by telling me about the bet in the first place. No need to make her feel any more uncomfortable than she already does.

“It’s no big deal,” I force myself to tell her. “But thanks for the heads-up. I appreciate it.”

She searches my face for a few seconds, and I make sure I’ve got my mask firmly in place. Good thing I’ve had a lot of practice using it over the last year, because it seems to fool her.

But before she can say anything else, the guys spot us and walk on over. “Ready for ice cream?” Luc asks, casually draping an arm around Cam’s shoulder.

She leans into him with a grin. “Are you buying?”

“I am,” Z answers. “I figure I owe you since I kept you all waiting around that damn clinic for hours this afternoon.”

“You didn’t keep me waiting,” I tell him.

He grins at me. “Yeah, but you’re new to Park City. You can consider it a welcome-to-Utah present.”

More like an I-want-to-fuck-you present. As if. I haven’t slept with anyone since Remi and I’m sure as hell not about to start with some punk-ass snowboarder who thinks he’s God’s gift. I eye him up and down. “Funny, you don’t look like the Welcome Wagon.”

“Oh, but he is,” Ash says on a laugh. “Trust me on that one.”

“Yeah,” Luc adds. “Z’s got a whole lot of welcome in him.”

“So I hear,” I answer with a smirk.

Cam chokes on her own spit, then glares at me as Luc pounds on her back. But I just smile benignly. After all, two can play Z’s game, and it’s about time he knows it.

Chapter 5

Z

Ophelia really likes ice cream. I mean, she really likes it.

That, or she’s just trying to torture the shit out of me, which I totally wouldn’t put past her. But I’m not the only one aware of how she’s eating her damn cone—one slow, lingering lick at a time. Ash is practically spellbound by her little pink tongue and the crazy wicked things she’s doing with it, while Luc is doing everything he can not to look at her, which only makes it more obvious that he’s aware of what’s going on.

Part of me wants to punch the shit out of my friends for what they’re thinking, but how can I when I’m thinking exactly the same thing? Especially when I’m the one who bet I’d have her in bed by next weekend.

At the time, it was pure self-preservation—no way could I keep standing there while the three of them looked at me like I was one step away from being a basket case—but still, betting I could fuck Ophelia? That’s low, even for me.

Then again, what she’s doing right now is just as low considering she has no intention of sleeping with me tonight—she’s been throwing out hands-off vibes since she ran into me at the clinic. Which makes the fact that she’s all but giving that fucking ice cream cone a fucking blow job even worse. Because even though I know I’m not going to get any action tonight, at least from her, my cock can’t help but fucking respond to every flick of her tongue.

I’ve given her space all evening, partly because I feel guilty because of that stupid bet and partly because I still intend to win it. Not just because I have no intention of losing my freaking Landlord but because after spending the last few hours with Ophelia, I want her more than ever.

At first she was nothing more than a distraction. Then she was a challenge. Now … now she’s still a challenge, but she’s something else, too. Something more. The thought has me shifting uncomfortably in my chair. I never do more. I never even want more. It’s crazy to think that any of that might change just because some pretty girl with a peaches-and-cream accent dumped a fucking drink down my pants.

“You ready to go?” I demand, more harshly and loudly than I probably need to. But I can’t help it. If I have to sit here and watch Ophelia do obscene things to that scoop of chocolate cherry ice cream for one more second, I’m going to say to hell with space and drag her very sexy ass onto my lap so I can do some obscene things of my own.

“Yeah, sure.” Ash shoves his chair back from the table like he’s been searching for a reason to get the hell out of Dodge. Not that I blame the guy. The last half hour can’t exactly have been fun for him. Not with the way Luc is making goo-goo eyes at Cam, who keeps glancing at me from under her lashes while I lust after Ophelia, who is doing a damn good impression of giving head to an ice cream cone. Ash probably feels like he’s fallen down a fucking rabbit hole—of the pornographic kind.

“But I’m not done with my ice cream,” Ophelia complains.

“Yeah, you are.” I snatch the cone out of her hand and dump it into the nearest trash can. It’s one thing for her to eat the thing like that in here, where we’re the only customers. There’s no way I’m taking her out on the street with it, where every asshole tourist in Park City can imagine exactly what I’ve spent the last thirty minutes thinking about.

“So much for the Welcome Wagon,” Luc mutters, but Ophelia doesn’t object about the lost cone. Instead, she just looks at me, her big green eyes so innocent that I know—I know—she’s screwing with me. She’s been playing me from the second she came back from the bathroom tonight, messing with my head just because she can.

Which somehow only makes me hotter.

Not that I have any intention of letting her know that.

I’ve been desperate for a distraction for two days. Desperate for something, anything, to hold back all the bullshit tumbling around inside me. So far, meeting Ophelia has done a pretty decent job of it. Which means it’s time to take things to the next level. Time to—

I catch sight of a mom and a little girl walking through the door of the ice-cream shop and freeze in the middle of pushing back from the table. The girl, maybe six or seven, has long black hair, big blue eyes, and cheeks rosy from the cold. One of her hands clutches her mother’s, while the other holds a ragtag stuffed rabbit that has definitely seen better days.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. She looks just like April. Her hair, her eyes, her smile. Even her damn purple jacket looks the same.

I turn away, just in time to realize that Cam has seen the girl, too. I can tell by the way her eyes widen and dart back and forth between the girl and me. By the way she grabs Luc and wrenches him to his feet. By the way her voice sounds all wrong when she says, “Time to go.”

Then again, maybe it’s my ears and not her voice. God knows, everything feels off inside me, the pressure building up where no one can see. Just like last night, only worse. So much worse. Because tonight I’m shaking apart, ripping at the seams until the jumbled mess inside me is even more mixed up. I’m shredded all over again.

And because of what? A morbid anniversary that I shouldn’t bother remembering and a little girl and her damn stuffed rabbit.

It’s ridiculous. Humiliating. And at the moment I couldn’t care less.

I head for the door at the closest I can get to a run, brushing past the girl and her mom without so much as an Excuse me or a Fuck you. I’m sure I look like a total pussy to everyone—Z, cracking under the pressure—but right now that doesn’t matter. Nothing does but getting out of here.

I hit the nearly deserted street and start walking, barely aware of the fact that the others are trailing me down the sidewalk. I’m pissed—at life, at the universe, at that damn little girl even though none of this is her fault.

It’s my fault. It’s always been my fault. Trying to blame someone else won’t change anything.

The thought has me slowing down enough that the others can catch up to me. Ash bumps shoulders with me on the left, while Cam grabs my elbow on the right. I know they’re concerned, know they’re just trying to help, but right now sympathy is the last thing I need—especially when it’s sympathy that I don’t deserve.

I want to shrug them off, to tell them to back off, but none of this is their fault, either. So in the end, all I do is knock my own shoulder into Ash’s even as I wrap my arm around Cam’s shoulders. Then I turn to grin at Luc, who is walking right behind me, a worried look on his face that I know I’m responsible for. Even Ophelia looks uncomfortable, like she’s aware she missed something important and doesn’t quite know how to act in the face of all this tension.

Time to change that, and fast.

“So, who’s up for a party?” I ask, reaching into my back pocket for my phone. “I got a couple of texts earlier about one at Mandy’s house and one at—”

“Seriously?” Luc interrupts me. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

Damn straight. “I was also going to ask if you wanted to stop by Danny’s and get some weed, but—”

“You’re a jerk. You know that, Z?” Cam looks furious.

“I never said I wasn’t,” I tell her with a grin.

I glance at Ash, expecting him to say something to back me up, but he just looks sick. Goddamnit. Bad enough that I’ve already been to the ER today, but now I’m dragging them down with old baggage that none of us can escape from.

“You don’t have to front with us, man,” Luc says. “We get it—”

“No, you don’t.” The words pop out before I even know I’m going to say them. But I’m not doing this. Not here. Not now. And sure as hell not in front of Ophelia. “I’m fine.”

Ash actually grinds his teeth. It’s obvious he wants to say something, but unlike Luc and Cam, he’s very aware of the fact that Ophelia is with us. I wait for his frustration to get the better of him, but it doesn’t, and in the end he keeps his mouth shut.

That doesn’t mean Luc and Cam will, though. And I’m done with being the charity case of the week. Before I really know I’m going to do it, I turn and sprint toward the small community park at the end of the street. I can hear them behind me, their boots crunching on the new layer of snow that coats the ground all around us.

Reaching down, I cup a handful of snow as I wait for them to catch up. Then, after shaping it into a perfect ball, I fling it straight into Cam’s face.

For long seconds, nobody moves. Even Cam just stands there with her mouth open as snow drips off her eyelashes and down her cheeks.

“What the hell?” Luc demands, looking pissed all over again. But before he can say anything else, a snowball hits him square in the chest.

I glance over at Ophelia, who is grinning with pride. “Cool,” she says. “This is my first snowball fight.”

There’s something in her eyes, something that says maybe she understands where I’m coming from, though I don’t know how she could. I barely understand myself. Still, I’m not about to waste the opportunity she just presented me with.

“Your first snowball fight?” I demand, even as I scoop up more snow. “How is that possible?”

“There’s not much snow in New Orleans,” she answers dryly.

“Is that where you’re from?” I ask, suddenly curious to know more about her.

“Born and raised.”

“So, what brings you to Utah?” It seems a strange choice for a southern girl who’s never had enough snow to make even a few snowballs.

Instead of answering, she sends a second snowball careening straight toward me. It hits me right between the eyes, even stings a little. The girl is a fast learner.

I bend over and start to scoop up some snow, and she takes off through the park. She’s not used to snow, doesn’t know how to run in it, so she isn’t moving very fast. I could catch her without even trying, but instead I let her get a little ahead of me. Lull her into a false sense of security.

Sure enough, after she’s gotten twenty or so yards in front of me, she turns and looks over her shoulder. And that’s when I let her have it. I send a snowball soaring across the distance between us, then watch with satisfaction as it slams straight into her chin.

Some girls would probably get mad—kind of like Cam—but Ophelia just gives her tinkling-bell laugh, a pure, rich sound that echoes through the empty park. It gets to me, has a chill running down my spine even as my cock twitches a little. Especially when she gathers up more snow and makes a huge snowball. There’s something really sexy about a girl who knows how to play.

I don’t bother to turn around, don’t even think about dodging or running. I’m too fascinated by the laughter she makes no effort to hide and the sparkle in her normally sober eyes. I brace myself for impact, but once again this girl is full of surprises. She whirls at the last second and hurls her snowball straight at Luc.

By the time he figures out he’s about to get hit, it’s too late for him to do anything other than jump to the side. The snowball gets him in the arm, exploding into a million clumps of snow on impact.

And then, quite simply, it’s on.

The rules are simple: there are no rules. And while it may seem vicious to some, this no-holds-barred game is exactly what I need.

Since there are five of us, it starts out as pretty much every man for himself. Still, I stick close to Ophelia in case she runs into trouble. Running on snow can be treacherous, and the last thing I want is for her to slip and break a leg her first month in town. Especially when this is supposed to be about fun, not pain.

We end up running through the whole park twenty or thirty times, Ash and Luc hot on our heels the whole way. Snow is everywhere, so we have no problem making snowballs and lobbing them at the two guys whenever they get too close to us, but we focus so much attention on them that we forget to look out for Cam. Which is stupid on my part, because finding a hiding spot and then building a stockpile of ammunition is totally her modus operandi. She’s been doing it since we were kids.

Sure enough, we’re making yet another circuit of the park, trying to get to the retaining wall in the back corner so we can make our stand without worrying that someone will creep up behind us, when a volley of snowballs rains down on our heads. Cam has set herself up behind the art wall of one of the playscapes so that she’s perfectly shielded as she sends snowball after snowball flying at us. One after another, again and again and again, until we give up any attempt at fighting and instead look for a place to hide.

Ophelia tries to duck behind a teeter-totter, but it’s too exposed. As soon as we turn our attention to Cam, we’ll be sitting ducks for Luc and Ash, who are already circling.

Grabbing Ophelia’s hand, I pull her behind a large tree and flatten her against it with my body. She stiffens, but as the snowballs start flying, she figures out pretty quickly that I’m trying to protect her.

“Get down,” I shout as they start coming faster. Ash and Luc have obviously scented blood in the water, and they’re going to annihilate us if we don’t do something soon. “Start scooping up snow.”

“What’s that going to do?” she demands, even as she starts raking at the snow with her gloved hands. “They’ve got us.”

They do. I know they do. But I’m not willing to give up yet. This is Ophelia’s first snowball fight, and I started it. The least I can do is protect her if I can’t actually help her win it.

I bend down, making sure to keep her covered even as I start to scoop snow as well. “Make as many as you can,” I tell her, “But don’t throw any. Not yet.”

She turns her head, peeks over my shoulder. “You’re getting pummeled.”

“Doesn’t matter.” It’s not like I don’t spend the better part of every day surrounded by or falling into snow. Besides, Ophelia’s shivering already. If I move and she gets hit with a continual barrage of snow, she’ll probably end up with hypothermia or some such shit.

The snowballs are coming fast and furious now, one after the other, and from two different directions—Cam, who has moved out from behind the wall, is hitting us from the right, while Ash and Luc are attacking us from the left.

Which is exactly where I want them.

“How many snowballs do we have ready?” I hiss at Ophelia, bending down to look at our pile.

“Twenty or so,” she answers as she continues to scoop up snow.

Not enough, but they’re closing in. We’ll be pinned down in seconds, and then there really will be no escape. At least not without a faceful of snow.

“Get ready,” I tell her, gathering up fistfuls of snowballs.

She nods, does the same.

“On the count of three, launch everything we’ve got at Luc and Ash. Got it?”

“Yeah.” She moves from her knees to her feet but keeps low in a crouch so that I can still cover her. I like that she does that, though I don’t know why it matters.

I count off, and at three we both explode into action, lobbing snowball after snowball straight at my two best friends. It turns out Ophelia has one hell of a throwing arm, because she nails them both in the face, again and again.

When they’re both covered in ice and snow and are too busy wiping their faces to pay attention to us, I lob two last snowballs straight at them, then grab Ophelia’s hand and slip around to the other side of the tree. Shouts echo as Cam’s snowballs suddenly make contact with Ash and Luc now that we’re not in the way anymore.

We run full out across the park, bobbing and weaving, dodging snowballs and curses and laughing so hard that we nearly fall down two different times. Ash and Luc can’t keep up, though, and soon we’re closing in on the safety zone the four of us established years ago, when we were just kids.

We’re almost there, so close that I can taste victory, when Ophelia suddenly steps on a slick patch of snow and her feet go sliding out from underneath her. I try to catch her, but our legs get tangled together and we end up going down hard, together. I shift her so that I’m underneath and take the brunt of the fall while she is stretched out on top of me.

“That was—that was—” She’s laughing too hard to finish, her long, curvy body pressing itself to mine as she shakes with amusement.

Her green eyes are staring into mine and I know she expects me to laugh with her, but the feel of her body against mine is setting off another whole set of alarms, ones that have nothing to do with laughter and everything to do with sex. She feels good, really good, and as she squirms to sit up, I get hard.

It’s inappropriate and crazy and kind of unexpected considering that we’ve just been running around together like a couple of kids, but I can’t help my response. She’s right fucking there, her sex burning hot where it brushes against my cock. So hot that I can feel it through her jeans and the boarding pants I’ve been wearing ever since I took a header on the half-pipe hours ago. Luc and Cam hadn’t seemed inclined to give me time to change before going to the hospital, and with my head feeling like it had been split in half, I hadn’t been inclined to argue.

Now, however, I’m cursing them up one side and down the other. If I were in jeans, I’d be able to feel her so much better. Her heat. Her wetness. My dick actually twitches at the thought, and Ophelia’s breath catches in her throat.

She doesn’t pull away, though, like I expect her to. She doesn’t slap my face, doesn’t stand up, doesn’t do any of the things I think she will. Instead she sits up and grinds herself, slowly, carefully, determinedly, over my cock. And embarrassing though it is, I swear I almost come at just that touch. Which is crazy, except—in my defense—the girl does one hell of a hip swivel.

Of their own volition, my hands go to her hips and I hold her in place for one second, two. Every urge I’ve got tells me to thrust up into that heat. I’ve been sexually active since I was thirteen years old and I’ve learned a lot in the last eight years. It wouldn’t take much to send her over the edge, right here. Right now.

Except Luc, Ash, and Cam are running straight at us, and while I don’t normally mind a little PDA, something tells me that once I start fucking Ophelia, I’m not going to want to stop. At least not for something as boring as listening to my friends gloat over their damn snowball fight victory.

Which is why I ease Ophelia off me, even though it takes every ounce of willpower I have. She blinks a little as I set her down on the ground next to me, and suddenly the lust in her eyes clears, becomes something else. The second it does, she scrambles backward, away from me, before jumping to her feet. This time her legs hold her, but I think that’s more miracle than actual skill.

“Ophelia.” I sit up, reach for her hand. I don’t know what I want to say, but I know I can’t leave her like this. With her eyes wild and her arms wrapped around her waist, she looks completely freaked out. Worse, she looks empty. I’ve had enough experience with the feeling to recognize it in her.

But before I can do anything more than say her name again and climb to my feet, the others are on us.

“You okay?” Luc asks her as he wraps a comforting arm around her waist. “That was one hell of a fall.”

“I’m fine,” she says, and though she’s still stiff, I notice that she doesn’t jerk out of his hold. Instead, she stands there, her body sagging a little against his, looking completely comfortable. Way more comfortable than she looked when we were together.

It pisses me off. Then I get pissed off about being pissed off. Luc is my best friend, and Ophelia’s just some girl, some bet. And yet I can’t stand the way he’s touching her, can’t stand the way he ducks his head and murmurs something only the two of them can hear. Even if it’s nothing, even if he’s just checking on her, I still don’t like it.

I jump to my feet, shove my hands in my pockets. Focus on the fact that this latest fall has aggravated all the aches and pains I got from my earlier swan dive in the half-pipe. My leg has started aching again and the bruises over my ribs throb in time to my heartbeat.

The hospital offered me a script for painkillers, but I didn’t take it. I know the nurse thought I was crazy—or a recovering junkie—but the truth is, the pain is part of the reason I do the things I do. It grounds me in a way nothing else can.

“Are you all right, Z?” Cam lays a gentle hand on my arm. “You didn’t hit your head again?”

“I’m all good,” I tell her, shrugging off her touch. It feels like she’s offering so much more than friendship with that hold, and it’s not something I want any part of. With anybody, really, but certainly not with her.

“So, what’s next?” I ask. “One of those parties or—”

“I’m going home,” Ophelia says.

I glance at my watch. “But it isn’t even ten o’clock yet!”

She shrugs. “I’ve got work in the morning.”

“So do we, but you don’t see any of us punking out early!”

“Guess I’m just not as cool as you, Z. But then, who is, right?”

Ash makes a big point of coughing to cover a laugh, so I shove him and then flip him off. Whose side is he supposed to be on anyway?

“If you really want to leave, I’ll walk you to your car.” It’s dark in the park, but I can still see her eyes. They’re wide and a little startled, and I decide not to push her anymore.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Ophelia answers. “It’s just a couple of blocks that way, right?” She gestures toward the park’s entrance.

“Actually, the clinic’s parking lot is that way.” I point in the exact opposite direction. “About three blocks.”

“Right. Cool.” She tosses her hair, tries to act like she’s not flustered at all. But I can tell she’s spooked. Right now, tough-as-nails Ophelia is anything but. “Thanks for letting me hang with you guys tonight. It was fun.”

She gives a little wave, starts to walk toward the other side of the park. I fall into step beside her, while Cam, Ash, and Luc bring up the rear. Now that they know we’re okay, they’re back to boasting about how they kicked our asses in the snowball fight.

We would have been home free if Ophelia hadn’t slipped, but I don’t bother to correct them. I’m too busy trying to ignore the way she smells—all sweet and warm, like peaches in the summertime. It’s a good smell, one that’s doing nothing to help my dick deflate even though it’s obvious I’m not going to be getting any action with her tonight.

“You don’t have to walk with me,” she tells me, sounding irritated. “I can find my way back to the clinic, you know.”

“No doubt. But it’s dark, and while most of the tourists are tucked up in their beds at the resorts, you don’t know who’s out wandering the streets. It’s safer if we go with you.”

“I don’t need a protector, Z.”

“No one said you did.” I glance at her. “Besides, does it look like I’m applying for the job?” With my tattoos and piercings and all-black wardrobe, no one looks less like a white knight than I do, and believe me, I know it.

She looks me over from head to toe, and for a second it looks like she might say something else, but in the end she just shakes her head and keeps walking.

We make the rest of the three-block trip in silence, the only sound that of our boots crunching in the snow and the laughter of my idiot best friends, who are still behind us. I try to think of something else to say, but for the first time ever I’m at a total loss for words. I don’t have a clue how to talk to this girl.

Once we get to the parking lot, Ophelia says, “My car’s parked right over there.” She points vaguely toward the left side of the lot. “Thanks for walking me.”

“No problem,” Ash tells her.

“You okay driving back to the lodge on your own?” I ask suddenly. It’s snowed some since we’ve been out, and the roads are slick and a just a little icy. No big deal for me, but Ophelia’s a southern girl. Icy streets are a whole new ball game for her.

My friends turn to stare at me—I guess they’re not used to me giving a shit about anyone but them—but I ignore them. I may be a loser and a fuck-up, but I’m not a total dick. Or at least, I don’t think I am.

She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m good, Z.” She gives me a little push. “Go get your car at the movie theater and go to that party or whatever. I’ll see you around.”

Then, after giving the others a little wave, she starts across the cleared and salted parking lot with long, sure strides.

I watch her go, her confident gait eating up the distance between her and the dark blue Honda sitting under one of the huge parking lot lights in the first row. She doesn’t look back once, but still, I wait until she reaches the car and fumbles her keys out of her purse before I turn away and head back up the way we came.

“So,” Luc says as we head back to my car. “What was all that rolling around on the ground with Ophelia?”

“Shut up,” Cam snaps at him, sounding totally annoyed. “They fell.”

Ash snorts. “Yeah, right. That totally looked like a fall. If, you know, a fall is another word for foreplay. You better start looking for another board, Luc. I think you’re going to have to kiss your Flow Darwin good-bye.”

“I don’t know about that. It’s been twenty-four hours since they met and Ophelia’s driving herself back to the lodge, with no invitation for Z to follow. That has to be a first.”

He’s right, it is, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Part of me wants to just fuck her and get it over with, but another part is growing a little more interested in her, in who she really is, each time we meet. Ophelia never says much about herself, but I can see that there’s more to her than the tough-girl attitude and the snappy comebacks. I just wish I knew what it was—and whether or not finding out will fuck me up more than I already am.

I don’t say anything else as we walk back to my Range Rover. But as we pass one of those electronic signs that flash the date and time, along with the store’s specials of the day, there’s a part of me that freezes as I see today’s date up there in bright red lettering. November 18, 2013. November 18. November 18. November 18.

The knowledge explodes through me, nearly rips me to pieces. Not the date, not even what the date stands for—what it will always stand for. No, that’s not what shreds me completely. It’s the fact that for the last couple of hours, while I ate ice cream and had the mother of all snowball fights, I’d forgotten. Forgotten what had happened to them. And forgotten my own culpability in it.

As if I had that right.

I stumble, nearly go to my knees as it all slams right back into me. The guilt and pain and pressure of it. The blame and the agony of it, so heavy that only years of practice—years of holding that shit way down deep—keeps me on my feet and moving forward.

When we get to my car, Ash suggests hitting up one of the parties I mentioned earlier, but I just shake my head. I’d only suggested the parties because I wanted to spend more time with Ophelia, and now just the thought of squeezing into one of those crowded, smoke-filled houses makes me crazy. The pressure’s so bad I can barely think, can barely breathe. The last thing I need is to be trapped in the middle of a crush of bodies.

In the end, I drop Cam, Luc, and Ash back at their respective homes, then head to my dad’s place. My place, really, since the great tech genius himself hasn’t been back here in three and a half years. Not since my high school graduation, and even then it was just an overnight trip. A quick in-and-out to attend the ceremony and tell me he was proud of me. I might even have believed him—if he’d been able to look me in the eye when he said it.

An old Red Hot Chili Peppers song comes on the radio, and I reach over and turn it up until the beat is so loud that I can’t think through it. Then I just coast, every part of me on automatic pilot as I make my way through the softly falling snow, with no plans other than to go home and get high.

At least until I turn onto Red Maple, heading toward Park. Because there, all bundled up in a bright red jacket and sitting on a bus stop bench at the side of the road, is the girl I’d walked to her car nearly an hour ago.

Chapter 6

Ophelia

This time I don’t bother to look up when the car pulls to a stop in front of me. I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes waiting for my connecting bus, and this is the fourth car that’s stopped. I don’t think I look like a hooker sitting here all zipped up—and it is obviously a bus stop, after all—but given all the idiot guys who’ve stopped to offer me a ride, you’d think I was wearing a sign that read No One Refused.

Which is so not the case.

“Hey!” one of the morons in this newest car calls to me, but I don’t even turn my head. If I completely ignore them, maybe these idiots looking to get lucky will finally go away.

“Ophelia!”

This time I do turn, at the urgent tone and the sound of my name. Shit. Not a stranger then, but Z, who looks confused and more than a little pissed off.

I wave to him, then go back to what I was doing before he pulled up. Which isn’t much, really. Just staring down the road and trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

I hear him curse, then the sound of the Range Rover turning off and a car door slamming. Which means I’m not getting rid of him as easily as I’d hoped.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, coming around the front of the car to crouch down in front of me. “I thought you had a car.”

“I do.” But it’s not the blue Honda outside the clinic. No, my car is safe in the parking lot outside the employee housing provided by the lodge—in the same spot it’s been in since I arrived here twelve days ago.

“Then why aren’t you driving it?” He looks at me like I’m insane. And maybe I am. Either way, it’s none of his business.

Which is why I shrug. “I’m still new to Park City, don’t know my way around very well. I took the bus today because I was worried about getting lost and being late to my appointment.” Not a lie, I tell myself. Just not the whole truth, either.

But Z doesn’t look like he’s buying it. Big surprise. After all, it takes a con artist to know one.

“Isn’t that what GPS is for?” he asks.

“What’s the big deal?” I demand, going on the offensive because the defensive obviously isn’t working. “Why does it matter if I didn’t want to drive today?”

“It doesn’t matter. Except you lied to me. And now you’re sitting out here at the bus stop, alone, in the dark and the cold, waiting for a bus that doesn’t look like it’s coming anytime soon.”

“It’s coming. It’ll be here in seven minutes.”

“Great. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you won’t be a Popsicle by then. Or a rape victim.” He stands up, reaches for my hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

I yank my hand back, glare at him. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Relax, princess. You’ve been safe with me all night. I’m not going to suddenly attack you. I just want to take you back to the lodge.”

“I’m fine. The bus is almost here.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” He gestures toward the nearly empty street. Currently the only car on it, besides his, is stopped at the light a few yards away. The two guys in the front look about our age, maybe a little older, and seem intensely interested in what’s going on between us. “You don’t actually think I’m going to leave you here alone, do you? With assholes like that around? It’s practically the middle of the night.”

“It’s not even eleven o’clock yet.”

“Still. Come on. Get in the car and I’ll take you home. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is you’re wasting your time. I’m not going to sleep with you.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. “Who asked you to?”

I almost blurt out that I know about the bet, but I don’t want him to get mad at Cam for tipping me off. “Give me a break. I know when a guy wants to sleep with me.”

“Well. Aren’t you the egotistical one?” He tugs on my hand, pulls me to my feet. This time I don’t fight him, though I’m not sure why. “Are you sure you aren’t projecting?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning maybe you’re the one who wants to sleep with me.”

His hand is on my lower back now, and he’s guiding me toward his Range Rover. I should stop him, I know I should. But his hand—warm and firm and steady—feels so good that I’m hard-pressed not to just sink into him. Already my teeth have stopped chattering as his warmth slowly seeps through the layers of my clothing and into me.

“As if.”

“That was weak,” he tells me with a snort. “Surely you can come up with something better than that.”

“I probably could if my brain cells weren’t all frozen. I swear, I don’t know how anybody lives in this place.”

He yanks open the car door, starts to help me inside like he’s some kind of gentleman instead of a too-conceited-for-his-own-good snowboarder who also thinks he’s a player. “I’m fine here,” I tell him one more time, even as I slide across the smooth leather. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No. You—” He slams the door in the middle of my sentence, effectively cutting me off. I expect him to rush around to the driver’s seat, but instead he just stands there for a minute, looking at me through the glass of the passenger window.

I start to look away—the last thing his ego needs is for me to watch him like I’m spellbound—but I can’t. There’s something in his face, in his eyes, that keeps my gaze locked to his. It’s familiar, like I’ve seen it a million times before, and at first I think it must be the charmer in him. All smooth and smiling and I-know-you-want-me.

Remi was like that, and I figure that must be it, that there must be something of my old boyfriend in him. Except … except then he blinks, and the mask I didn’t even know he wore starts to slide back into place. Then I realize it wasn’t Remi that look reminded me of. It’s myself. It’s what I see every morning when I look in the mirror before I put my makeup on. Before I put my mask on and try to convince the world—and myself—that I really am okay.

This time when I tremble it has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the knowledge that deep inside, Z is as shredded as I am. The charm and cockiness aren’t just products of being too hot and too talented. They’re camouflage for something else. Something dark and dangerous and desperate.

Part of me wonders what it is, while the other part just wants to let it be. Let him be.

Still, my hand comes up of its own volition, presses against the ice-cold window. Z doesn’t see it, thank God. He’s already turning away, taking the long way around the SUV to the driver’s door. When he finally climbs in, that look of vulnerability is long gone. In its place is the Z I’m coming to know and tolerate, all oozing sexuality and wise-ass comments. Surreptitiously, I tuck my hand back into my lap.

I should be relieved he’s back to normal. After all, this Z is so much easier to deal with. So much easier to dump a drink on and just forget about.

Or at least he should be.

Except as he drives, his strong, long-fingered hands expertly handling the SUV on the icy roads, I can’t help but remember that moment in the ice cream parlor when I realized something was wrong.

Or those few minutes in the park when he teamed up with me, working so hard to protect me when it would have been much easier for him to have just left me behind.

Or how he stopped when he saw me at the bus stop and all but forced me into his car.

He could have left me. Could have driven right by and pretended not to see me. I never would have known. No one would have. But he didn’t. He stopped for me. Insisted that I get in the car. And now he’s going out of his way to make sure that I get home safely.

Again, I’m reminded of Remi. Only this time, the reminder is an empty, aching wound inside me, one that strips me raw and leaves me bleeding. Collateral damage to the wreck that was his life for far too long.

We’re silent for most of the drive, which is good and bad. I could use my sparring partner back. Right now I’d love something—someone—to sharpen my claws on. But as Z oh so graciously pointed out, my retorts aren’t exactly up to snuff at the moment. I guess that happens when it feels like your whole life is about to implode for a second time.

An old Nirvana song comes on the radio, “All Apologies,” and Z reaches over, starts to turn it off.

“No.” I put a hand on his arm, stop him. “Don’t.”

His face is grim as he glances up at me. “You like this song?”

“Yeah.”

He nods, swallows, then sits back as Kurt Cobain’s rough, emotion-filled voice fills the car.

It’s not true. I don’t like this song. I used to, a long time ago. I used to listen to it again and again and again, just to hear the subtle shifts and nuances in Cobain’s voice. But now … now I listen to it for an entirely different reason. I listen to it because it hurts. I listen to it because I hate it. I listen to it because, in my twisted, warped mind, it’s a penance I have to pay, a debt I’ll never get on the other side of.

Everything is my fault. I close my eyes for a moment, listen to Cobain sing about blame, sing about shame. Tears press behind my eyes, but I will them away. Crying is for pussies, for wimps, and I can’t afford to be one of them. Besides, tears don’t change anything. If they did … if they did, I really would cry a river. Maybe even an ocean or two.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, hoping Z is so caught up in driving the winding roads up to the lodge that he doesn’t notice my little meltdown. But a quick glance at him as we pass under a streetlamp shows his jaw clenched tight enough to break teeth and his hands locked in a death grip on the steering wheel.

His stiff thumb taps out the melody and his left leg bounces, not to the slow, melodious beat, but to something else. Something in his head that only he can hear.

I snap my arm out, turn off the radio with one emphatic push. It’s one thing to torture myself, but to torture Z, too—or to watch him torture himself—is another thing altogether.

“Changed your mind?” he asks, shooting me a surprised glance.

“Yeah. Nirvana’s fine in New Orleans, where it’s warm and sunny most of the time. But here, where it’s dank and gray and cold, they are way too fucking depressing.”

He laughs, as I mean him to, and we’re close enough that I can sense the subtle relaxing of his muscles, though it takes a minute. Good. I wouldn’t wish what I feel on anyone.

“So,” I say a little while later as the silence stretches taut as a violin string between us. “What idiot stunt were you trying that landed you in the clinic’s urgent care today?”

“What makes you think I was doing something idiotic?”

“I’m sorry, have you met yourself?”

He chuffs out a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know exactly what it means. From what I understand, snowboarders are total adrenaline junkies to begin with. And you, you’re the worst of the bunch. Everybody says so.”

“Do they?”

“They do.”

“And how would you know? Have you been asking about me?”

“What? No way!”

“Uh-huh.” He grins. “I think the lady doth protest too much.”

“The lady doth not protest at all. And cut the cheesy Shakespeare quotes. Just because my mom’s a moron who named me Ophelia—”

“I like your name. It suits you.”

“Seriously?” I stare at him incredulously. “Telling me that the name of one of Shakespeare’s most abused, craziest characters suits me is so not the way to get into my pants.”

“There you go again, thinking everything’s about sex.”

“And there you go again, pretending it isn’t.”

“No offense, Ophelia, but you seem awfully obsessed with the idea that I want to bed you.”

“Bed me?” I scoff. “Are we actually in the fifteen hundreds?”

“Would you prefer I say I want to fuck you?”

His words slam into me with the force of a wrecking ball, and suddenly I’m hot. Really hot, despite the chill in the air and the frost creeping around the edges of the windshield. It’s been so long since I’ve been with someone, so long since I’ve been held and touched and kissed. It’s why I lost it at the park earlier, when I was on top of him, and why I’m close to losing it again right now.

For a minute I can all but picture it. Z’s mouth on my skin, his hands on my thighs, his body pressed against mine. His indigo eyes staring into mine as he slides slowly into me.

I shift in my seat, try to control breathing that has suddenly gone shallow and disjointed. Because I can’t not do it, I glance at Z out of the corner of my eye. I can tell by the look on his face and the tension in his body—so different from the stiffness of earlier—that he’s noticed my reaction. Shit.

I wait for him to say something, to press his advantage. But he doesn’t. Instead he clears his throat and says, “I was trying out an inverted 1440.” His voice is huskier than it was, thicker, which only makes me hotter. As does the knowledge that he’s trying to bring the temperature in here back down to normal by circling the subject back around to snowboarding.

“An inverted 1440? What the hell is that? I’ve never even heard of it before.”

“Oh, yeah? You hear a lot about snowboarding down there in Louisiana?”

“No. But I’ve been at the lodge almost two weeks now. With the X Games and the Olympics coming up, it’s all anyone can talk about. Especially with you guys boarding at the resort.”

“Is that why you decided to hang with us? Because you think Ash is going to win a gold medal at the Olympics?”

I start to get offended, but then I realize that’s exactly what he wants. “Maybe I think you’re going to win a gold medal.”

This time his laugh is filled with derision. “Yeah. That’s not going to happen.”

“You sure about that? People are talking.”

“People talk about a lot of things. But no, this year it’s all Ash.”

“You okay with that?”

For the first time since I got in the car he looks pissed. Really pissed. “He’s my best friend. I’m more than okay with that. I’m fucking stoked about it. He better go all the way. He’s the best damn boarder in the country right now. Definitely one of the best in the world.”

“So are you. Or at least, that’s what they say.”

“Who the fuck are all these people you keep talking about? They seem to know a hell of a lot about me. How come I don’t know anything about them?” He shoves an annoyed hand through his hair and I think he’s going to say more, but then the SUV hits a patch of black ice and starts to skid.

I freak out as the back of the Range Rover fishtails, my hands clenching at the seat while I bite my lip until it bleeds. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Please, not again. Please, not—

Z stays totally calm through the whole thing, steering into the skid and holding the car steady like it’s nothing. Within seconds we’re back under control.

I slump into my seat as we continue up the mountain. My heart is beating like crazy, and I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that I’m going to be able to pry my hands off this seat before we get to the resort. I only hope I haven’t left nail marks in the supple leather.

“Hey, you okay?” Z glances at me worriedly.

“I’m fine.” The hoarseness puts paid to the fact that I’m lying.

“That was no big deal, Ophelia. Honest. I’ve been driving on ice-slick roads since I was fourteen. I know what I’m doing. I’ll keep you safe.”

The concern in his voice is new, and it undoes me in a way nothing else could have.

Not the ride home.

Not the conversation that made me smile despite myself.

Not the sudden ache I’m feeling for sex after months of feeling nothing.

Not even his total modesty when it came to his fame and talent.

No, it’s none of those things that start to get through to me. I have defenses against everything. Or at least I thought I did. But the softness in his voice, the way he looks at me with such concern and sincerity while he promises to keep me safe, puts a couple of long cracks in the hard shell I’ve spent the last year building around myself.

The thought terrifies me. Absolutely, positively panics me on every level it can. So much so that it’s all I can do to keep from throwing the door open and flinging myself out of the SUV and onto the icy road.

I don’t want to feel … anything. I sure as hell don’t want to feel something for the most charming manwhore in Park City, Utah, who obviously has more than a few issues of his own. As for feeling safe? I haven’t felt safe in so long, I’m not even sure I’d recognize the feeling ever again.

“Ophelia?” He doesn’t touch me—he’s keeping both hands on the wheel as he negotiates the treacherous road—but I can tell he wants to. Not because he wants to fuck me, as he so eloquently put it earlier. But because he wants to reassure me. Wants to make me feel secure.

“I’m good, Z. It just startled me, that’s all.”

“You sure?” He sounds tentative, like he doesn’t believe me but doesn’t want to risk upsetting me any more than I already am.

“Yeah. It’s no big deal. It’s not like anything happened, right?”

“Right.”

He relaxes a little and I turn to look out the window. I recognize this stretch of road, know we’re only a couple of miles from the employee housing where I’m currently staying. Which is good. In my opinion, we can’t get there fast enough.

The next few minutes pass in silence of the uncomfortable variety. When we get to the turnoff, I start to tell Z—it’s kind of hard to see, even during the day—but he seems to know exactly where it is.

Of course he does. He’s probably fucked every female who lives in the place. God only knows how many times he’s made this turn in the middle of the night.

When we pull up to the curb in front of the building, I all but leap out of the car. I start to call over my shoulder, “Thanks for the ride,” but Z turns off the SUV before I can even open my mouth.

Then he’s walking around the front of the car and reaching for my elbow. I’m so shocked that I let him grab hold, and then he’s walking me up the sidewalk to the building’s front door, making sure that I don’t slip on the ice that’s accumulated.

Again his concern gets to me. Again I slap it back, spackling the cracks in my armor almost as soon as they appear. I’m not doing this. I am not letting anyone in, and certainly not Z.

He waits with me while I fumble for my keys and unlock the front door. As soon as I’ve got it open, I turn to him with a smile I’m far from feeling and say, “Thanks for the ride. I appreciate it.”

“Where’s your room?” he asks, looking down the hallway.

“I’m on the third floor.” I gesture to the staircase, start to step back from the door so that it will close.

His hand shoots out, stops the door from slamming in his face. “I’ll walk you up.”

“Z—”

He cuts me off with a raised hand. “Once tourist season starts, there are all kinds of creeps around here. Let me walk you to your door, make sure you get inside safely, and then I’ll leave. I swear.”

He looks sincere, which only affects me more. The self-protective part of my brain is screaming at me to kick him out as soon as possible, to get him out of the building and my life. But, somehow, I find myself nodding and letting him walk me up the two flights of stairs to my room.

“I’m right here,” I say, stopping two doors into the hallway.

Z frowns. “I don’t like that you’re so close to the stairwell. It doesn’t seem safe.”

“Well, then, I guess it’s a good thing it’s none of your business, isn’t it?”

“Wow. A little prickly there, aren’t you?”

“You haven’t even seen me get prickly yet.”

“Hmm. That’s a real concern, considering you ruined a five-hundred-dollar pair of snowboarding pants yesterday when you weren’t being prickly.”

I nearly swallow my tongue. His pants cost five hundred dollars? And he’s wearing another pair today? Jesus, two days’ worth of clothes for him would pretty much pay for my whole damn wardrobe. It boggles the mind.

“Are they really ruined?” I ask, sick to my stomach. Since room and board is included in this job, five hundred dollars is close to two weeks’ salary for me. If I have to pay him back, I need to start saving now—

My alarm must show on my face, because he laughs. “They’re fine, Ophelia. I was just messing with you.”

Relief sweeps through me. “Thank God. I had visions of going bankrupt trying to replace them.”

“I’d never make you do that. It was my own fault anyway.”

My brows shoot up. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you admit that.”

“I may be an asshole, but I’m not a total douche,” he tells me. “At least not normally. I know when I fuck up.”

I’m not touching that admission with a ten-foot pole. Not when it makes him seem so … human.

“On that note, thanks for the ride.” I all but push him toward the stairs. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“You could give me your number. That way you’ll be sure to see me around.”

For long seconds his words don’t compute. “You want my number?” Z never gets a girl’s number. He usually meets her, takes her out, bags her, and then goes on his way. Or at least that’s what everyone says about him. And it’s certainly the vibe I got off him that first night.

“Yeah?” For the first time he sounds uncertain, like he’s totally unfamiliar with this routine. “That way I can call you. See if you want to go to dinner sometime, or maybe to see another movie.”

Another crack appears in my shell, and I know it’s the uncertainty I’m responding to instead of the request for a second date. There’s just something about seeing the totally self-assured Z look a little lost that gets to me in a big way. In a bad way.

“I, uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean—”

“You don’t want me to call you?” He sounds incredulous.

I don’t, no. For so many reasons that I don’t want to get into. “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure, it is. You give me your number. I call. We go hang out, have a good time. See where it goes.”

“Why are you pushing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Why are you so determined to get my number? There are hundreds of girls at the resort who would lie down buck naked in the snow for a chance to go out with you. Why are you here trying to convince me?”

He looks uncomfortable, and suddenly I remember what Cam told me. The bet. Of course. This is all about the bet he made to sleep with me.

On one hand, the knowledge reassures me. On the other, it scares me to death. Because I’ve been around him one night—one night—and already he’s getting to me. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is.

What am I going to do if he keeps popping up, trying to endear himself to me? Even if it isn’t serious, even if it’s all about that stupid bet, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist him. Not the sex, because that’s the most unimportant part of the whole equation. But the vulnerability I see in him when he doesn’t think anyone is watching. The pain that connects so easily with my own.

“Maybe I like you,” he says.

Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of. Or, more accurately, I’m afraid that if I give him half a chance, he can make me like him. And I’m just not ready for that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Good night, Z.” I take another step into my room, start to close the door.

Once again, he catches it—this time by wedging his foot against it. “Fine. If you won’t give me your number, at least take mine. Or tell me what time you’re working tomorrow. I’ll show up. We’ll talk. I’ll even let you dump coffee on me again.”

“I don’t want to dump coffee on you again.”

“Maybe not now. But give me ten minutes. I’m sure I’ll say something that pisses you off again.”

The funny thing is, he probably will. But even that’s a problem, because if I’m angry, then I’m feeling something. And once I open that door, who knows what else will leak through. Look where I am already, just twenty-four hours after meeting Z.

I start to tell him to get lost, to leave me alone, but he gives me that charming grin again. The one he gave me yesterday, and the one he gave me over and over again today whenever I looked at him.

And that’s when it hits me. He’s not going to give up. Not Z, world-class athlete and Olympic contender extraordinaire. He hasn’t gotten where he is by being a quitter, by forgetting about what he wants. By giving up. If he’s got a bet going on, then he’s going to be all over me for the next week, trying to get me into bed. Trying to win that bet. Which, normally—with any other guy—I’d just ignore.

But Z isn’t an easy guy to ignore. Especially now when I know there’s a lot more to him than I first thought. The longer I’m around him, the bigger the risk I’m taking. Not that I’ll fall for him, because that won’t happen, but already I’m cracking. Already I’m letting him in when I swore I’d never do that again. Never let anyone close enough to hurt me the way Remi did.

But I can see traces of Z’s pain, know there’s so much more of it than what’s at the surface. And I’m afraid that somehow all the agony I sense in him will slip behind my last line of defense and then I’ll be right back where I was a year ago: totally screwed.

I don’t want to go back there. Not now. Not ever. When I came here, it was for a fresh start. I promised myself that I wouldn’t look back, wouldn’t think about the past. It’s a good plan, one I can’t let Z derail me from, not now that I can finally breathe a little.

Which is why, even as I tell myself to close the door, I end up doing the exact opposite. I step back and ask, “Why don’t you come in for a while, have something to drink?”

Chapter 7

Z

I’m not sure who’s more shocked by her invitation, Ophelia or me. Probably me, since she’s already turned around and walked deeper into her room while I’m still standing in the hall with my hands in my pockets and my mouth wide open. Talk about a total loser.

There’s a part of my brain that’s telling me to walk away, that any girl who makes this kind of 180-degree turn obviously has issues I am not equipped to deal with. And yet, even as I’m telling myself to get the hell out of here, I take a step into her small studio apartment. Then another and another, until I’m standing in the center of the room. Which is only about five feet from the main door, but still.

“So what do you want to drink?” she asks. “I’ve got Dr Pepper, hot chocolate, coffee, and water.”

I glance around, take in the single bed that doubles as a couch, the small bookshelf loaded with books, the tiny kitchenette. There’s not much else to see. No photos. No posters. Nothing but a few books to give me a clue about who Ophelia really is.

“I’ll take a Dr Pepper.”

“Good choice.” She walks over to the fridge and pulls out two of the old-fashioned glass bottles, then uses an opener to pop the caps off them.

“Did you really ask me in just for a drink?” I wonder as she hands me the soda.

She pauses, her hand still on the bottle, right next to mine. “Did you really come in just to get a drink?”

“What do you think?” I ask, watching her face carefully as I put the bottle on the counter next to me without taking a sip.

Ophelia follows the movement with her eyes. “I think you don’t like Dr Pepper.”

“You think right.” I’ve never been able to stand the stuff.

“So why’d you take it, then?”

I put my hands on her waist, pull her closer, until her lower body is pressed against mine. “Why do you think I took it?” I can’t help it. There’s a part of me that likes playing this cat-and-mouse game with her.

“I don’t know.” She keeps her eyes steady on mine. “You’re certainly full of questions tonight.”

“I am. How come you’re not full of answers?”

“Because answers are always harder than questions. Don’t you know that?”

I think of the million or so questions I have about April. About my mom. About everything that went down during that time in my life. A million questions and almost no answers. Except the really bad ones. “I guess I do.”

She takes a long sip from her bottle, and I can’t help but watch the way her mouth moves against the rim, the way her throat works as she swallows. I don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose this time, but Jesus, she’s making me hard.

I shift, try to adjust myself so my hard-on isn’t so fucking obvious. But it’s nearly impossible when she’s drinking half the damn bottle in one sip and all I can focus on are her shiny pink lips and what it would feel like to have them wrapped around my cock.

Finally—finally—she puts the damn drink down next to mine, then tilts her face up so she’s looking me in the eyes. “Still, I think I’ve got a pretty good answer for what you’re doing here,” she tells me.

“Oh, yeah?” Who is this girl and what has she done with Ophelia?

I know I should be concerned, but her face is only inches from mine now, and if I bend my head, I’ll be able to kiss her like I’ve wanted to from the first moment I saw her. I start to do just that, to press my lips to hers, but her sudden change of tune holds me back, tells me to take it slow. Something is up with her, and I don’t know what it is. The knowledge bothers me more than it should.

I mean, all the signs are there.

Her full lips are tilted up in a seductive smile.

Her sweet body is curved into mine.

Even her hands have taken up residence on my arms, her fingers curling around my biceps as if to hold me to her.

Yeah, she’s giving me all the right signals, and I should totally be taking advantage of them, stripping her down so that I can see and touch and kiss every inch of her beautiful, beautiful body.

Still, I’m hesitant. Something feels … off, though I can’t figure out what it is.

Then again, Ophelia must not be feeling the same trepidation, because she tilts her head up and answers, “Yeah,” to my earlier question, right before she makes the move I’ve been dying to make since the moment I first saw her. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and presses her gorgeous, perfect lips to mine.

Thank God.

It’s just a soft touch, her lips brushing over mine in a kiss as light as an early winter snowflake. Once, twice, then again and again until I feel like I’ll go crazy if I can’t touch her. If I can’t tilt her head back and thrust my tongue deep inside the recesses of her mouth. If I can’t pull her against me and feel her slick heat against my cock.

Though it kills me, I keep my hands clenched at my side and my lips gentle against hers. She started this. It’s only fair to let her lead for a few minutes so I can find out exactly where she wants this thing to go.

It’s a good plan, and it probably would have worked, too, except the seventh or eighth time her mouth brushes my own, she makes a low, needy sound deep in her throat. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard, and it shatters the stranglehold I’ve kept on my control from the moment she invited me in.

My hands come up of their own volition, my fingers tangling in her long, silky hair as I tilt her head to the side for better access. Then it’s my turn to take charge of the kiss. My turn to show her everything I want to do to her.

I run my tongue along the seam of her lips, licking softly, tenderly, toying with the perfect bow of her upper lip until she gasps and opens for me. I nip at her lower lip then, tugging gently at it with my teeth. She moans a little, her hand coming up to twist in my shirt, and that’s when I slip inside her, my tongue gliding between her lips and her teeth to play with her frenulum, the sensitive bit of skin that connects her upper lip to her gum.

She moans again, and this time the sound shoots straight through me. My cock, already hard, starts to throb in time with the blood roaring in my ears. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to strip her naked, press her up against the nearest wall, and fuck her until we’re both senseless with pleasure.

But Ophelia’s not that kind of girl. From the moment she dumped that drink on me, I knew she was different. That she’d require more than my usual fuck-and-run. It’s why I walked away from her that first night. And why I made that stupid bet, so I’d have an excuse to see her again when every instinct I have is shouting at me to stay as far away from her as I can.

That’s not going to happen, though. Not tonight, when she tastes like peaches and vanilla and sweet, delicious cream.

Not tonight, when she’s offering herself so fucking sweetly.

And definitely not tonight, when she’s holding on to me like she’d fall if I wasn’t here to support her.

Tilting her head back even more, I delve deep. I sweep my tongue over the back of her teeth before licking along the roof of her mouth and sliding it against and over and under her own. She tastes so good, feels so good, that I could do this for hours even if it means suffering the worst case of blue balls in history.

But Ophelia has other ideas. Her hands slide down my chest to my stomach, and then she’s tugging at my shirt, breaking our kiss only long enough to pull the thing over my head. Then she’s flinging it across the room even as she leans into me, her mouth picking up exactly where we left off. Only this time her eyes are open and I can’t help staring into the verdant depths of them. Here, now, they’re forest green, like the needles of the pine trees that make up so much of the landscape around here. They’re dark and mysterious and sexy as hell, and I want to spend the night staring into them as I make love to her, watching their color change as I kiss and lick and touch her.

Because Ophelia has that kind of eyes. I’ve spent the last few hours noticing how they reflect whatever she’s feeling, a different shade of green for every emotion she’s experiencing.

When she’s angry, her eyes are a brilliant emerald. When she’s happy, they’re a softer moss color. When she’s aroused, they’re this sexy forest green.

I’m dying—dying—to know what color they’ll be when she comes.

With that thought in mind, I reluctantly relinquish my hold on her hair and move my hands to somewhere they can do more good. She’s still wearing her thick jacket, so I unzip it and tug it down her arms before tossing it onto the counter behind her. Then I pull her sweater off and do the same thing to it. She’s got one more layer on, a thick turtleneck that hugs her full breasts and shows off her wicked crazy figure to its best advantage.

I take a step back so I can get a better look, and I swear my mouth nearly waters at the sight of her. “You’re so goddamn beautiful,” I tell her, and though it’s not the fanciest compliment I’ve given a girl, it’s definitely the most sincere.

Except the smile fades from Ophelia’s face as easily as it came. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” I answer, hooking my finger around the neckline of her turtleneck and dragging it down so that I can kiss her graceful neck. “But there’s a million things I want to do, including tell you that you’re gorgeous.”

I brush a line of kisses down her neck to her collarbone, but the damn turtleneck keeps getting in the way, so it’s my turn to strip her shirt off and fling it away. She’s still wearing a bra, a lacy black thing that matches the turtleneck and looks sexy as hell against her pale skin. The light is really dim in here, but if I look closely, I can see the hard press of her nipples against the delicate swirls of lace.

I want to touch, need to touch, so I lean forward and trace a line with my tongue across her breasts, right where the bra ends and she begins. Ophelia shudders, her hands clutching at my hair as her lower body rubs itself against mine.

Shit. Fuck. Goddamnit. She’s working herself against my cock, and if I don’t stop her soon, I’m going to come before we ever really get started. I haven’t done that since I was thirteen and losing my virginity in the back of Becky Martin’s parents’ car, and I have no intention of letting it happen now, no matter how hot Ophelia gets me.

And she’s got me hot. So hot I can’t breathe without pain, just as I can’t imagine walking away from this—from her—until I’ve had my fill.

Putting my hands on her hips, I lift her up until she’s sitting on the counter, her beautiful breasts only inches from my mouth. I know I should take the time to strip her bra off, but I can’t wait. Not now, when her hard little nipples are tempting me to touch and taste and take.

Bending down, I press a hot, openmouthed kiss over her right nipple before pulling it—lace bra and all—into my mouth and starting to suck.

“Z.” She calls my name even as she arches her back, pressing her breast more fully against my mouth.

And that’s when I lose it completely. I shove her bra down, not even bothering to take it off as I pull her nipple back into my mouth and suck. She tastes sweet here, too, and I can’t get enough of her.

I bite softly, relishing the way her hands tighten in my hair as she whimpers my name. Her hips are moving wildly as she sits on the counter, and I know a touch from me will send her spinning right over the edge. I start to give it to her, to press the heel of my hand where she needs it most, but for the first time in my life I’m not in a rush for the prize.

Yes, I want to slip inside her. Yes, I want to feel her come around me. Yes, I want to lose myself in the sweet oblivion that comes only with sex. But at the same time, there’s so much I want to do to her, with her, that I’m not ready to jump to the money shot. Not yet, anyway.

So instead of rubbing her to orgasm, I pull back. Take a second to breathe, to calm down. As I do, I reach around behind her to unfasten her bra, then slide it slowly down her arms.

She moans a little, jerks against me, and I run my hands up and down her back, trying to soothe her frantic movements. It’s hard because there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to fall on her sweetness and take and take and take.

“Z?” She raises her head, looks at me questioningly.

“Wrap your legs around my hips.” I press a soft kiss to her mouth when she complies, then slide my hands under her hips and carry her to the bed.

“I want to see you,” I say, reaching for the lamp next to the bed after I deposit her on the bed. The small light she switched on when we entered doesn’t provide nearly enough light to satisfy the need I have to explore every inch of her.

“No,” she says, her voice suddenly devoid of the huskiness I’d heard in it just moments before. She puts a hand over mine and stops me from turning on the lamp.

I freeze at the urgency in her voice, then turn back to face her. “What do you mean?

What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She unfastens her jeans, then pulls them down her legs. “Can’t we just do it like this?”

Red flags are popping up all over the place, but at the same time, Ophelia’s fingers have delved beneath the waistband of my boarding pants and she’s got my cock in her soft little hand. I know I need to think, know I’m missing something important here, but it’s damn hard to focus when she’s pumping me off.

“Ophelia. Wait.” It takes Herculean effort, but I put my hand over hers, try to get her to stop, just for a moment. Just so I can figure out what’s happening.

She wants no part of waiting, though. Instead, she yanks my pants and underwear down to my calves, then watches impatiently while I kick them off after my boots. I reach for her, try to pull her against me so I can kiss and stroke and touch all the places I’m dying to explore, but she slides right through my hands and onto her knees—right between my legs.

My eyes nearly cross when she rubs her thumb across the tip of my cock and then, before I can even begin to recover from that, she’s leaning forward and pulling me into her mouth.

“Fuck!” Once again my hands tangle in her hair, but this time it’s as much about finding something to hang on to as it is about angling her mouth where I want it. Because, if I’m honest, Ophelia doesn’t need any help. She knows exactly what she’s doing as she slides her tongue along the underside of my cock. As she hums deep in her throat. As she polishes the head of my dick with the very tip of her tongue.

“Ophelia, baby.” I can’t believe how close I am, or how fast she’s gotten me here. I tug at her hair, try to get her to listen so I can warn her that—

For one second her eyes meet mine, and I freeze at the control in them. Gone is the dark forest green of her arousal, and in its place is a hard malachite that is all calculation, all cool reason and determination.

It doesn’t make sense. When we were in the kitchen, she was into it. I know she was into it. I could feel it in the way her body moved against mine, hear it in the desperate little sounds she made deep in her throat. Hell, I could see it in the frantic beat of the pulse at the base of her neck.

So what the hell happened? How did she go from completely turned on to just going through the motions? And, more important, why?

She’s still going down on me, and while it feels good—obviously—the desperate heat of my own arousal has died as quickly as hers did. I know some guys don’t give a shit about whether the girls they fuck get off, but I’ve never been one of them. I may do a lot of girls, and I may not call afterward, but I always, always make sure they get something out of it, too. Otherwise, I might as well just use my hand.

“Ophelia, stop.”

She doesn’t listen. She sucks me deep into her throat, circles my dick with her tongue. Despite my best intentions, I flex my hips and drive my cock deeper into her mouth as an electric current of sensation shoots down my spine.

She makes an encouraging sound in the back of her throat and the vibrations set every one of my nerve endings on fire. My vision gets blurry and the driving need for release is a powerful drumbeat inside me. She’s good at this—really good—and part of me wants to just say fuck it and go with it. She obviously doesn’t have a problem with it happening.

Except, when I force myself to focus—when I shove the mind-numbing, knee-weakening pleasure back and just look at her—I can see the way her hands are shaking. I can see how tense she is. And before she looks down, I can see the glassy sheen of tears in her eyes.

That does it. I’m finished. “Ophelia, stop.”

Once again, she doesn’t listen, but this time I tug at her hair until she gets the message and slowly slides me out of her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice hoarse and raspy from how deep she’d just taken me. “Don’t you want to finish?”

“What I want,” I say as I sink to the ground beside her, “is to know what the fuck is going on here.”

Chapter 8

Ophelia

I freeze at the demand, which sounds incredibly compelling when spoken in that sexy, yes-I-sold-my-soul-to-the-devil voice of Z’s. I don’t want to answer him, don’t want to say anything to him at all, but he’s not exactly in the mood to take no for an answer.

His hand comes to rest on the bottom of my chin and then he’s pressing up, forcing me to meet his eyes whether I want to or not.

“What’s going on, Ophelia? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, the answer I always give to that question even when it isn’t true.

Like now. I’ve rarely been less fine in my life, and the truth is, I don’t even know why. It was just a blow job, after all. Just sex. It had to happen again sometime, with someone. Why not now? Why not with Z? It’s not like he matters. It’s not like any of it matters.

“Really?” He cocks a brow. “Because you don’t look fine and I just don’t get it. You were into it. I know you were into it. And then … then you just weren’t anymore.”

I was into it. I wasn’t expecting to be, but it was hard not to get turned on with the way Z was touching me and kissing me, the way he paid attention to every single freaking thing my body did. Like he was looking for a road map to make sure I enjoyed it as much as he did. And I was enjoying it—a lot. At least until I remembered Remi. And the bet. And all the reasons I wasn’t supposed to like what was going on.

“What do you care?” The words slip out before I have a clue I’m going to say them. “As long as you get laid, as long as you win that stupid bet, why the hell do you care what’s going on in my head anyway?”

He stumbles back on his heels, his face blank with shock—and something else I just can’t place. “You know about the bet?”

“Damn right I do.”

“And you were going to sleep with me anyway?”

I try to look away, but he’s still got a firm grip on my chin. It kind of pisses me off, the way he thinks he has the right to touch me so proprietarily, and part of me wants to lash out. To knock him on his ass. But the more reasonable part acknowledges that I did just have his cock in my mouth, so he probably thinks that gives him some rights over me.

As if.

“Ophelia?” he prompts when I don’t say anything.

“Yeah, I was. So what?” This time I shove at his hand until he lets me go. I can’t handle being this close to him, can’t handle looking into those eyes that have gone so dark that I can barely distinguish the pupil from the iris.

Standing up, I grab my jeans and yank them up my legs. Having this discussion is bad enough. Having it when I’m nearly naked somehow makes it a million times worse.

After I find my turtleneck—hanging from the top of one of my lamps, for God’s sake—and slip it on, I turn to see that Z pulling up his own pants. I grab his shirt from where I took it off in the kitchen, fire it at him. Now that things have turned ugly, I can’t get him out of here fast enough.

Except Z seems in no hurry to leave, even after he yanks his shirt over his head. Instead, he walks over to where I’m standing and leans against the tiny bit of counter space I actually have in this place. I try not to look at him. The last thing I need to remember is Z kicking back in my kitchen, his arms and legs crossed in a pose that screams, Yes, I’m king of the fucking mountain, and I know I’m sexy as hell, too.

For long seconds he doesn’t say anything and neither do I. Then again, there’s not much to say, is there? He bet he could fuck me and I was prepared to let him win that bet because I knew it wouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t say a whole hell of a lot good about either of us, does it?

When he finally does speak, it’s just one word. And though I should have been expecting it, I’m not, and I don’t have an answer—at least not one I want to share with him.

“Why?”

I don’t answer.

“Ophelia?”

I shrug, still refusing to look at him. I figure eventually he’ll let it go and just walk away. It’s what he’s known for, after all. It’s sure as hell what I’d do if I was in his place.

But it turns out Z’s got more sticking power than most people give him credit for, because he’s not budging. In fact, when I look at him out of the corner of my eye, he’s practically grown roots.

“I don’t know, okay?” I finally tell him. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Bullshit.” He spits the word out.

“Excuse me?” Now I do turn to look at him.

“That’s bullshit. You’re a smart, savvy woman, Ophelia. I’ve only known you a little over twenty-four hours and already I’ve figured out that you don’t do anything without a reason.”

“Maybe I just wanted to sleep with you.”

“Yeah. Because we both saw how well that worked out,” he says with a snort. “Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”

“Why don’t you just let it go?”

“Because I never let anything go.” He pushes off from the counter, slowly closes the distance between us. “And because I can see that whatever’s going on in your head is eating at you.”

I start to laugh it off, to tell him how ridiculous he’s being, except he chooses that moment to skim his fingers gently down my face.

I jerk at the caress, pull back. He follows me, his eyes filled with a compassion I never thought to see from him. It hits me like a blow, sends me into a tailspin of emotion and agitation that I don’t know how to recover from. I can deal with derision. With hate. With anger. Even with indifference. But with compassion? From someone as broken as Z? I don’t have a clue how to deal with that.

So I do the only thing I can do. I lash out, using the truth like a club. “You really want to know why I was going to sleep with you?” I ask him, my voice a particularly nasty blend of bitch-meets-asshole.

To Z’s credit, he doesn’t back down, doesn’t turn away, even though it’s obvious now that he won’t like the answer. “Yeah. I do.”

“Fine. Whatever. The truth is, I invited you in, I decided to sleep with you because I knew you wouldn’t give up. I knew you’d keep coming around, bugging me, for the next week, and I just couldn’t deal with your shit. So I decided, screw it. The best way to make sure I never have to see you again is to fuck you. Once you get what you want you’ll be out the door so fast you’ll leave skid marks on the linoleum.”

For long seconds he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. I don’t even think he breathes. Then, just when I don’t think I can take it anymore—when the silence stretches between us like a piece of barbed wire pulled past its limit—he says, “You were going to have sex with me to get rid of me.”

I toss my hair, look him straight in the eye. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Yeah. I guess it does, doesn’t it.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he bends down, picks up his boots from where he’d kicked them earlier during our mad rush to nakedness, and walks straight out the door without another word. No Fuck you. No Go to hell. No Have a nice life. Nothing but the sound of the door closing behind him as he heads for the stairwell.

It’s exactly what I wanted him to do, exactly what I needed him to do. Which is why it makes no sense when I sink to the floor and cry for the first time in eleven long, hell-filled months.

Chapter 9

Z

“You planning on getting up sometime soon?” The question is delivered with a kick to my bed hard enough to move the thing half a foot across the floor.

I ignore both, choosing to operate under the assumption that if I play dead long enough, Luc will just go away. It worked with both Cam and Ash yesterday, so I see no reason to change things up now.

Except Luc’s the stubborn one—he always has been. It’s why he’s a ranked snowboarder when his riding has always been more about not giving up than it’s ever been about natural talent. It’s also why I’m not surprised when he reaches a hand out and shakes me roughly. Once, twice, then a third time, so hard that my teeth actually rattle together.

Pain explodes behind my eyes, and I want to tell him to get the fuck away from me. But interaction of any kind will just encourage him—we’ve been down this road enough for me to know the rules—so I grit my teeth and imagine what I’ll do to him if I ever manage to drag myself out of this bed. Which I’m not planning on doing anytime soon, but still. It passes the time.

After what feels like an eternity, I hear footsteps walking away from the bed, and I finally let myself relax, just a little. Three down, zero to go. It should be at least a day before any of them comes back and tries to drag me out of bed again. Which means I have all day to drink myself into an alcohol-induced coma.

Figuring I should probably get started, I crack my eyes open—just in time to see Luc throw the drapes open on the wall across from my bed. Light floods the huge room, blinding me and kicking the pain in my head up about a million degrees.

“Luc, you fucking asshole. Close the damn curtains!” I grab a pillow and fire it across the room at him, then immediately regret it because now I’ve got nothing to hide my head under.

“So you are alive. We were beginning to wonder.”

Desperate now, I burrow deeper into the covers so that I can pull the comforter over my head. But not before I flip him off.

“Nice,” he says, right before he starts beating on the glass door like it’s a fucking drum set.

I throw the covers back, start to climb out of bed. The pain’s worth it if I actually get to strangle the motherfucker—

“Stop, stop. Please!”

Luc and I both freeze at the unexpected sound of a female voice coming from my bed. Before I can do more than sink back into bed, a head covered in long red curls peeks out from under the covers.

“You son of a bitch!” Luc launches himself at me, and I’m so horrified I don’t even bother to try to defend myself.

Don’t let me have slept with Cam last night.

Don’t let me have slept with Cam last night.

Please, please, please, by all that is holy, please don’t let me have slept with Cam last night.

“God, you guys are loud. Isn’t anyone allowed to sleep in around here?” As her whole face finally manages to make its way out from under the covers—making her voice a lot less muffled than it had been—I nearly collapse in relief.

Not Cam. Some girl whose name I don’t know and whom I don’t remember at all. But not Cam. At the moment I’m inclined to be thankful for small blessings.

Luc must figure it out at the same time I do, because he comes to a screeching halt a couple of feet from my bed.

“Who’s this?” he asks as he looks down at the redhead, who I have to admit would be pretty cute if she didn’t have enough mascara smeared under her eyes to make her resemble a raccoon.

“I have no idea.”

“Nice,” he says again, rolling. “How much fucking weed did you smoke last night, anyway?”

“A lot,” says the girl next to me, shoving her hair out of her eyes as she sits up. What she doesn’t do is keep the sheet tucked around herself, and since she’s naked, Luc and I get treated to a view of a pretty spectacular peacock tattoo—not to mention a fairly nice pair of breasts. “I’m Stacy. Z and I met at Brewer’s last night. He taught me how to do body shots.”

“I bet he did.”

I close my eyes and fight the urge to bury my head in my hands. I have no idea who this girl is or how she got into my bed, though it sounds like a shitload of tequila shots might be responsible for both.

Goddamnit.

“Hey,” she says, squinting up at Luc. “Aren’t you Lucas Bradford?”

“I am.” He eyes her warily.

“Awesome! I get to meet Z Michaels and Lucas Bradford all in the same twenty-four hours. How cool is that?”

“Pretty cool,” Luc mutters.

“I know, right?”

Okay, so this girl is either still drunk or incredibly stupid, because she’s not catching any of the shade Luc is throwing her way. Which is kind of amusing considering he’s not exactly being subtle. It’d probably be completely hilarious if my head didn’t feel like it was being slowly, torturously ripped off my body.

“Do you think we can close the damn drapes?” I ask for the second time.

“That depends,” Luc answers.

“Do you want to climb in?” Stacy asks, pushing the covers aside and scooting closer to me so that Luc could climb in next to her. “I’ve always wanted to have a threesome.”

“All right, then.” I roll out of bed on the other side. “Sorry, Stacy, but I think it’s probably time for you to get going.”

“Already?” She pouts in what I’m sure she thinks is an attractive manner.

“Yeah, already.” I grab my jeans and search through the pockets for my wallet. When I find it, I pull out forty bucks and hand it to her. “Call a cab to come get you.”

“But we haven’t even done it yet! After we got back here last night you just weren’t into it, so you promised we could do it this morning.”

Oh, thank God. I close my eyes against the sun and the relief that swamps me. I don’t know why it seems like a big deal when I’ve done it hundreds of times before, but I am suddenly, intensely grateful that I didn’t spend last night fucking this girl who I actually can not stand in the light of day.

“That’s not going to happen,” I tell her after a second. “You should take the money.” At first it doesn’t look like she’s going to, but after Luc turns down her offer of a quickie, she grabs the cash and reaches for her phone.

I start toward the bathroom with a vague plan of being violently, disgustingly ill.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Luc demands, getting in my way. “This is your mess.”

“I’m going to puke. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

He snarls his disgust, but he lets me pass as he heads over to the bed to help Stacy find a cab company.

It’s just one more reason he’s been my best friend since kindergarten.

* * *

After a shower that makes me feel at least partially human, I drag myself out of the bathroom to find that all traces of Stacy’s existence have been wiped out of my bedroom. Her clothes are gone, and so are her shoes, her purse, everything—including her.

I breathe a cautious sigh of relief. Though I don’t know she’s gone for sure, with any luck she’ll have left the premises sometime during my twenty-minute puke fest or half-hour shower.

On the nightstand next to the bed is a cup of black coffee and two painkillers. I take them both, so desperate for the relief that I don’t even care that I’ve probably scalded my throat for life.

I drag my jeans on and think about walking downstairs, maybe getting some breakfast. But just the idea takes more effort than I’m capable of, so I lie back down in bed and stare at the ceiling. Except now that I’m awake and mostly sober, I can smell her in my sheets, a combination of tequila, pot, jasmine, and something else that turns my stomach all over again.

Suddenly I can’t take it for one second longer. I bound to my feet and rip the black sheets off my bed. I take the pillowcases off, the comforter, everything, and kick them into a ball near the door. Then I sink back down on the edge of the bed and just sit there, my head in my hands.

That’s how Luc finds me a few minutes later. “Rough morning?” he asks in a voice that isn’t exactly sympathetic.

“You have no idea.”

“Oh, you might be surprised. Come on. I made breakfast.” He turns and walks back out the door, and for long seconds I think about not following him. About staying right where I am. But what the fuck good will that do? The drapes are open, the covers are gone, and I’m wide awake and sober—which, if I’m being honest, totally sucks.

When I get downstairs, there are two huge bowls of cereal on the table along with a gallon of milk. Breakfast. Right.

“Is Stacy gone?” I ask, walking to the coffeepot and pouring another cup. It’s shaping up to be a five-cup morning.

“Yeah. No thanks to you. That chick was like a fucking octopus.” He shoves a bite of Cheerios into his mouth. “Every time I thought I had her under control, she’d grow another arm and grope me somewhere else. I’m pretty sure by the time I got her out of here she’d violated me in ways that are illegal in twenty-seven different countries.”

“Sorry about that,” I say with a wince. Now that I think about it, I’m feeling pretty damn violated myself. What the fuck was I thinking, getting so drunk that I brought home some woman I don’t even recognize? Sleeping with a stranger is one thing. Doing it when I’m too wasted to even know what I’m doing is totally another. And bringing her back to my house—letting her spend the night in bed with me when I don’t actually sleep with anyone, ever—is totally fucking nuts.

Just thinking about her in bed with me makes me a little crazy, which only makes the pressure inside me worse. Like it’s been fucking building and building since the moment I walked out of Ophelia’s apartment and—

Shit. I cut the thought off before it can even form. I knew the girl barely twenty-four hours. She’s just another girl, just another resort bunny who’s here for a season and then gone. There’s no reason to let her get in my head and fuck with me like this. No need to pay any attention to her. No need to take anything she said seriously.

Except she was being serious when she said all that shit to me. When she told me she was willing to fuck me for the express purpose of driving me away. She wasn’t being cruel, wasn’t throwing shit out there to hurt me. She was telling me the truth. She’d actually been willing to have sex with me just to get me to go away.

That’s dedication, man. I mean, shit. I’ve known for years how fucking repulsive I am, but still, this is a new level. Even for me.

Suddenly I want another shot of tequila so badly that my hands are fucking shaking with it. Normally I’d ignore the urge, but it’s been a hell of a week already and it’s only Sunday. A few more shots won’t hurt anyone.

Except as I wander toward the bar for the Herradura, Luc stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Dude. What are you doing?”

“Getting a drink.” I hold up the bottle. “Want one?”

“It’s ten o’clock in the fucking morning.”

“Then I’m getting a late start. I should probably have two.”

“Really?” he asks, ripping the bottle of tequila out of my hand. “This is really how you want this to play out?”

“No, how I want it to play out is with that bottle of tequila in my hand, not yours. Give it back.”

“Fuck, no.” He walks to the bar sink, empties the entire bottle of Selección Suprema.

“That’s three hundred dollars’ worth of tequila you just poured down the drain, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re in the middle of throwing away about five million dollars in talent and endorsements, so what the fuck. Three hundred bucks doesn’t really mean shit to you, does it?”

“Not really, no.” I reach under the bar and grab one of the spare bottles I stock up on this time of year, in case of just such an intervention.

Luc watches in disgust as I crack the shit open and take a long swallow right from the bottle. It burns all the way down, but that’s okay. It’s just proof that I can still feel something.

“You’re acting like a total loser, you know that, right?”

“That’s not acting. It’s just truth in advertising, my friend.” I toast him with the bottle before taking another swig.

“Goddamnit.” He wrenches the Herradura out of my hand and throws it against the wall. Except it doesn’t make it. Instead, it takes down a sculpture halfway across the room, and I watch with something like awe as they both crash to the floor and shatter.

For long seconds neither of us says anything. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. Except—

“My dad liked that sculpture.”

“Your dad hasn’t been here in three years,” he tells me as the pungent scent of tequila fills the air. “He won’t even have a clue that it’s gone.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about that.”

I stare at the destruction blankly, not sure what we’re supposed to do now. This whole intervention thing has happened a bunch of times—Luc, Ash, and Cam have been staging one around this time for years. But this whole bottle-throwing, sculpture-shattering move is new, and I’m not sure how to respond to it. We’ve been doing the same old song and dance for so long that anything new messes everything up.

Except Luc doesn’t seem to be playing. Not this time. As he stalks toward me, there’s no remorse in his face. No let’s-feel-sorry-for-Z-because-he’s-gotten-a-raw-deal look. In fact, the only thing I can identify in his face is pure, unadulterated fury. It’s kind of interesting, really, and there’s a part of me that wants to see what’s going to happen next. The rest of me just wants to walk back upstairs and sleep until this whole week, this whole month, is done with.

“What is wrong with you?” he yells, his face suddenly inches from mine. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Hey, dude, you’re the one in the middle of the temper tantrum.” I hold my hands up in the universal don’t-blame-me gesture. “Maybe you should ask yourself that question.”

“You’re pathetic, you know that?”

“Obviously.” I lift a brow at him. “If you’re trying to piss me off, you’re going to have to work harder than that.”

“What the hell, Z?” He backs off, runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “We’ve been playing this scene out for years, and I’m tired of it. Tired of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Tired of coming in here and trying to pick up the pieces after you fucking shred yourself into nothing—”

“Hey, I never asked you to put the pieces back together. I never asked you for anything.”

“Because you’re a total fucking coward. Everyone thinks you’re so fucking brave with all those stunts you pull. So fucking noble to face the ‘tragedy’ of your past and still live your life on your terms.” He opens his arms wide. “But look around, asshole. There’s nothing noble about you. Nothing noble about drowning yourself in tequila. Nothing noble about fucking girls whose names you can’t remember when they’re still in your damn bed. And there’s nothing fucking noble about throwing your life away because your sister lost hers.”

“Don’t you talk about her.” I’ve been keeping my cool so far, mainly because Luc hasn’t said anything I don’t already know. But the second he talks about April, it’s like a shot of fucking adrenaline to the heart. “Don’t you fucking talk about her.”

“Why not? Because it will upset you? Because it’ll make poor little Z cry?”

“Fuck you, man!” My hands started shaking the second he brought her up, and I shove them in my pockets, hoping he won’t notice.

“Wow, great comeback,” Luc mocks. “Did it take you all day to think of that?”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You know exactly what my problem is. You’re just not man enough to face it.”

“You know what? I don’t have to stand here and take this. You’re in my house, not the other way around. So why don’t you show yourself out before shit gets said that can’t be taken back?”

“It’s too late for that, don’t you think? And we’re not in your house. We’re in your daddy’s house. Your daddy’s mansion. Poor little rich boy—”

I launch myself at him before I even know I’m going to move, plow my fist into his jaw. “What the fuck do you know about it anyway? What the fuck do you know about anything?”

“I know more than you.” He shoves me hard, nearly sends me sprawling on my ass. “Look around, Z. You have everything, everything, and you’re just pissing it away.”

“What have I got? Huh, Luc?” It’s my turn to throw my arms wide, to turn around in the middle of this fucking mausoleum that I hate but still can’t find the energy to move out of. “I’ve got a big fucking house that no one else wants. Big fucking deal.”

“Bullshit. You’ve got everything right in front of you. You’re just too scared to fucking take it.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true.” He gestures to me. “Look at yourself. It’s three weeks before the fucking Olympic trials, man, and what are you doing? Trashing your body? Trashing your life?”

“I don’t give a shit about the Olympic trials.”

“Oh, don’t I know it. You’ve made damn sure we all know it, haven’t you? You fucking prick.”

“Get out.” I turn, head for the staircase. “I don’t need to listen to this.”

Luc moves fast, gets in my way. Refuses to let me pass. “This is exactly what you need to hear.”

“Get out of my way, man.”

“Not until I say what I came to.”

“I think I’ve heard more than enough.”

“You haven’t heard shit. You never do. You’re too locked in your own head, too busy being self-absorbed and tortured and fucked up to hear what you need to.”

My hands clench into fists. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“What are you going to do? Hit me again?”

“Yes, goddamnit, that’s exactly what I’m going to do if you don’t get the fuck away from me.”

“Have at it.” He spreads his arms wide. “You’re mad at the fucking world. Mad at yourself. Mad at your mother. Mad at your sister. You might as well be mad at me, too.”

I swing my fist into his stomach, follow it with an uppercut to the jaw that lays him out on the floor. “Is this what you want?” I shout at him. “Is this what you fucking want?”

He climbs gingerly to his feet, his fingers probing at the bruise I can already see forming on his jaw. “What I want is for you to man up. Stop being such a pussy and get your fucking act together. You’re rich—”

“Is that it? Is all this about the fucking money?”

“It’s never been about the fucking money and you know it.” He walks to the bar fridge, pulls out a few ice cubes, and wraps them in a towel. “You’re the most talented snowboarder I know—”

“Ash is—”

“No. Not Ash. You. We’ve been boarding together for over a decade. Been on the pro circuit together for four years. You do shit that no one else can even come close to, and you do it without even trying.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? What about that inverted 1440 you pulled out of your ass the other day? Has anyone else done that, like ever?”

“Probably.”

“Bullshit. If they had, we would have heard about it.” He sighs, presses the ice to his injured jaw, and I feel like an even bigger prick than usual. “Everyone knows you’re the most talented fucking boarder in the world right now. You could take the top spot at the trials. At the X Games. Hell, you’ve got a shot—a good shot—at taking home the gold medal at Sochi, but instead of working on your fucking boarding, you’re drinking yourself into a coma.”

That last hits a little close to home considering what I was thinking only about an hour and a half ago. Not that I’m about to let him see that. “There’s more to life than snowboarding, man.”

“Really?” He looks around. “What?”

“Excuse me?”

“What else have you got in your life but snowboarding?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s pretty self-explanatory. What the hell else do you have going on besides boarding?”

I don’t say anything, but then he doesn’t expect me to. No one knows how fucked up my life is, how fucked up I am, better than Luc. We grew up together. He was there when April died. When my mom fucking killed herself. When my dad told me what I already knew—that it was my fault. That it was all, every fucking thing, my fucking fault.

“Oh, right. You don’t have anything else.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really?” He starts ticking things off on his fingers. “Your father’s a douche who won’t have anything to do with you.”

“Because he blames me for—”

“No. Not because of that. Because he’s a total fucking douche and he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Wow, man. That’s deep. Should we hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ now?”

He flips me off but doesn’t stop with the listing. “You’ve got Cam, a really beautiful girl who’s in love with you, but you’re too busy fucking anything that moves to appreciate her.”

“Dude, I would never fuck around with Cam.”

“You better not or I’ll rip your dick off. Still, if she loves you, then there’s a chance that someday some other girl will. But you’ll never find her if you spend your life wasted and picking up a different snow bunny every night of the week. And I wouldn’t even say anything about that, except I don’t think you even like doing it. You sure as hell didn’t seem to want anything to do with Stacy this morning.”

For some reason Ophelia’s face flashes through my head, but I shut that shit down fast. She made her feelings abundantly clear on Friday night. And it’s not like it matters anyway. Not like I actually give a shit about her or something.

“What else?” Luc asks. “Oh, yeah. Thanks to your parents and a couple of trust funds—not to mention some really sweet sponsorship deals—you’ve got more money than you know what to do with, but you don’t give a shit about that, either. At least not as long as you have enough in your pocket to buy a dozen or so bottles of expensive-ass tequila.

“And you’ve got us. Ash, Cam, and me. Except you’ve spent so much time pushing us away lately, trying to keep us at arm’s length, that I’m beginning to think you don’t give a shit about us, either.

“So tell me, Z. What the hell do you have in your life that’s more important than getting your ass out there on that half-pipe and getting ready for the fucking Olympic trials? Because, whatever it is, I’m just not seeing it.”

Chapter 10

Ophelia

I catch a glimpse of dark hair out of the corner of my eye, and even as I tell myself not to look, that it isn’t him, I can’t help turning my head just to check. Just to be sure.

It’s been three days since Z walked out of my room, and I haven’t seen him since. Not here in the café, not going into or exiting the dressing room on the other side of the lobby. Not even on the slopes when I’m walking to and from work. Not that I’ve been watching for him or anything. It’s just I’d seen him around a few times before Friday night and it seems strange that he’s simply disappeared.

I swear, if I didn’t hear people talking about him occasionally, speculating about his chances for making the Olympic team or winning this year’s X Games, I would think he didn’t exist. Or that I’d made that whole night up.

The movie. The snowball fight. The vulnerability I thought I saw in his face when he drove me home.

It’s that vulnerability that haunts me now, that I-won’t-let-it-hurt-me-even-though-it-obviously-does look of his that makes me feel like shit even though he was using me as much or more than I was using him. Because if it was true, if it wasn’t all an act just to get me into bed, then I can’t help feeling like a total bitch.

Yeah, he made a bet about screwing me—but that was before he even knew me. All he knew at that point was that I had a temper and wicked aim with an iced coffee. Is there any doubt he was pissed when he made that bet?

Not that I’m excusing him, because I’m not. I mean, no matter how you look at it, it’s … ick. Not to mention all I’m-God’s-gift-to-women-and-I-know-it.

But at the same time, Mr. I’m-So-Arrogant-I-Can-Get-Any-Woman-I-Want stopped me in the middle of giving him a blow job because he knew I wasn’t into it. He stopped me. How many guys do I know who would do that? Even Remi, who loved me, would have been hard-pressed to walk away once I was on my knees in front of him.

But Z had. And then he’d asked what was wrong, why I was upset. Even though I’m not stupid enough to think he cares about a girl he just met, I can’t help but remember the way his hand felt sliding down my face. The way his eyes were dark and cloudy as they looked into mine.

Shit. I rub a hand over my face and try to stop being the stupid crazy girl who falls for the bad boy and then wonders why her life is all messed up. I came here to get my life under control, and right now I feel more lost than I ever have except right after the accident. And I don’t understand why.

He’s just a guy. Not even a particularly nice guy. Just a guy, and yet I’ve spent entirely too much time thinking about him since he walked out of my room, face blank and body stiff. He was pissed, I know he was, but he didn’t even bother to slam the door behind him.

I think that’s what bothers me most. A guy with that kind of self-control … there’s got to be a lot more to him than what he lets people see.

“Hey, Ophelia. Can I get a large coffee?”

Shaking my head to clear it, I turn to smile at Harvey. He’s a dishwasher in the kitchen at the main lodge with a serious caffeine addiction. He’s down here at least twice a day ordering the biggest cup of coffee we’ve got. His room at the employee dorm also happens to be three doors down from mine.

“Sure,” I say, filling a cup up with his usual Rain Forest blend but making sure to leave room for the bucket of half-and-half he likes to add to it. “You want a cookie or anything to go with that?”

“I’m good, thanks.” He pays for the drink, then slides a couple of extra dollars into the tip jar even though I’ve told him repeatedly that he doesn’t have to do that.

“What are you reading today?” I ask as he drops the contents of a half dozen packets of sugar into his drink.

He pulls a battered copy of Anthem by Ayn Rand out of his pocket. “A friend recommended it.”

“It’s good. One of the original dystopians, back when they were popular the first time.”

“So you’ve read it?”

“Yeah.” I’ve read a lot of things. Sitting on your ass for weeks at a time while you recover from a drag racing accident will do that to a person.

“Cool. So when I’m done, maybe we can talk about it.”

“Sure. I’d like that. There aren’t that many people I can talk about books with.”

“I know, right?” he says with a grin. I think he’s about to say something else, but another customer comes up to the counter.

I smile at him in apology, then turn to take the order. Harvey smiles back and gives me a little wave before he takes his coffee and book over to a seat beneath the window. He spends the next fifteen minutes immersed in the book and doesn’t look up until his break is over. Then he stands up and catches my eye before giving me a little wave.

I wave back. He’s a nice guy, and I think maybe we’re on the way to being friends. I have to admit it feels pretty good, especially since I haven’t had a friend for a while.

I’ve only got about an hour before my shift ends, and the time goes by pretty quickly since the snow has really started kicking up outside and a bunch of people have decided to hit the lodge early. In fact, I end up working about half an hour after I should have gone home just because we’re so slammed.

When reinforcements finally arrive, courtesy of a couple of the kitchen staff, I shed my apron gratefully. It’s been a long day and it’s not over yet. I’m supposed to have dinner with my aunt and uncle tonight, and the sooner I get there, the sooner it’ll be over.

It’s not that I don’t like them, because I do. They got me this job and have been pretty cool to me—especially since I messed up in the first two positions they put me in. When I got here I didn’t understand that letting the old geezers flirt with me was practically part of the job description, so when a couple of walking midlife crises with fake tans and bad hair tried to make a move on me, I made sure they understood I wasn’t interested. Unfortunately, I was a little too forceful in my rejection of them and complaints were filed.

After the second incident I thought I was going to get fired, but Aunt Penny put me in the café hoping that the third time would be the charm. And except for that little incident with Z the other night, things have been good. It turns out that as long as I keep a counter between me and the lecherous losers, things go pretty well.

And while I hate the cold, I’m still glad my aunt gave me the chance to settle in instead of sending me packing the first week—which she probably would have been justified in doing. After all, we’re not exactly close. She’s my dad’s sister, and since he walked out on my mom when I was six months old, it’s not like I’ve had much chance to get to know his family.

Penny, however, has always made a point of staying in touch with me—birthday cards, Christmas presents, a couple of letters or phone calls scattered through the year, just to make sure I’m doing okay. But that was always as far as it went. At least until the accident happened and my mom figured it’d be better for my “recovery” if I got out of town for a while.

Which I guess it has been, if you consider the fact that I almost had sex with Z three days ago. That’s something I could never have imagined happening back home, where memories of Remi lurk around every corner—on every street I drive down and every store I go into.

Though I’m trying not to think about him, an image of Z pops into my head. Once again, I shove it right back out. We said everything we needed to say to each other before he left my apartment. There’s no use regretting it now. No use feeling guilty because of how I handled things. God knows I carry enough guilt around on a daily basis. The last thing I need to do is add to it.

The elevator dings on the fifth floor, and I step out. My aunt and uncle have a small but luxurious apartment on this floor—one of the perks that come with managing this place—and they’ve decided we’re going to eat here tonight instead of in one of the resort’s restaurants. I think my aunt’s trying to do the whole home-cooked-meal thing in case I’m missing New Orleans, but my mom’s always been more of the frozen-food-in-the-microwave kind of cook. Either way, I appreciate the gesture.

Penny’s husband, Alex, answers the door when I knock. “Hey, kid,” he says, ruffling my hair like I’m five. “Come on in. You look beat.”

“I feel beat. The last hour and a half has been insane.”

“Yeah. Always is when the weather turns bad.” He gestures to an overstuffed sofa. “Have a seat and relax for a few minutes. Penny’s almost done with dinner.”

“Let me just go say hello to her, see if she needs any help.” In my house, the few times my mom actually tried to cook usually resulted in a visit from the fire department or a trip to the ER—just one of the reasons I learned to cook before I was ten. Total self-preservation.

But when I get into the kitchen, it looks like my aunt has everything under control. Chicken breasts are simmering on the stove while Penny whips up a quick pasta sauce in another pan.

“Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, hi, sweetie.” She leans over and gives me a warm, brown-sugar-scented hug. “How was your day?”

“Good. Busy, but good.”

“Mine, too. But at least they go by fast that way.” She nods to the salad on the small island in the center of the kitchen. “You can toss that if you’d like. The dressing is in the bowl right next to it.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken marsala. It’s one of Alex’s favorites.” She glances at me. “Have you ever tried it?”

“Nope.” My cooking repertoire lends itself more to jarred pasta sauces than chicken braised in wine. “But it smells fantastic.”

“Thank you. I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

I pretty much run out of stuff to say then, and expect things to get awkward quickly. But my aunt is a born chatterer, and by the time we sit down to dinner, her nonstop talking has got me almost totally relaxed.

The first few minutes of dinner are spent going over the inner workings of the lodge—not the most exciting thing in the world—but it doesn’t take long for the conversation to turn to the skiers and snowboarders that the lodge sponsors. Despite my best intentions, I find myself listening for the mention of one snowboarder in particular.

“That Ash is something else,” Alex says in between bites of chicken. “Mark my words, ladies. Come January, he’s going to be America’s lead contender for Olympic gold.”

“Really?” my aunt says. “I think Luc Bradford’s got a lot of flair.”

“He does,” my uncle agrees. “It’s why I wanted to sponsor him. He’s a crowd-pleaser. But that kid is all flash and not that much substance, if you know what I mean. Kind of like Kevin Byerle. Now there’s a kid who can get the crowd on its feet with his tricks. But when it comes to basic skiing talent, he just doesn’t have it. Not the way some of the other skiers do.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Luc’s snowboarding seems pretty solid to me,” my aunt disagrees.

“That’s because you can barely get down the baby run on a snowboard,” he tells her. “Despite thinking you’re a total badass.”

She glares at him, but I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “You could let me have my illusions, you know.”

“I could.” He toasts her with his wineglass. “But where’s the fun in that?”

They laugh, and I can tell the conversation is about to take another turn, but I’m not ready to let it slip away yet. It seems like they’ve talked about everyone but the person I most want to hear about.

“What about Z Michaels?” I ask, doing my best to sound only vaguely interested.

“Z?” My uncle’s gaze sharpens immediately. “Why are you asking about Z?”

“Uh, just curious, I guess. I mean, I’ve heard people talk about him—”

“Why do you think she’s asking about him, Alex?” my aunt interjects. “Because he’s gorgeous and talented and just a little bit tortured. Is it any wonder the girls swoon whenever he’s in the vicinity?”

“I’m not swooning,” I protest. “I was just curious.”

“Yeah, aren’t they all?” my uncle mutters. “Look, Ophelia, Z’s a good enough guy. Smart, funny, very talented. But he’s not the kind of boy you should be messing with.”

“I’m not messing with him! I’ve barely met him. I was just wondering because I’ve seen him on the slopes and he seems really talented. But you didn’t say anything about him making the Olympics.” I feel my cheeks flush, even as there’s a part of me that’s standing back and wondering if we’re seriously having this conversation. I’ve gone my whole life without much parental supervision—my dad was gone and my mom was usually too busy trying to put a roof over our head to bother about which boy I was dating (otherwise there’s no way she would have let me date Remi)—so having my uncle so interested and protective feels strange.

“Good, keep it that way. That guy is trouble.”

“You’re just bitter because he wouldn’t let us sponsor him,” Aunt Penny tells him.

“You have to admit it’s weird. What kind of guy turns down sponsorship from one of the best resorts in Park City?”

“The kind who doesn’t want to be tied down? You know he likes riding the backcountry. And besides, he doesn’t need the money. He’s got a lot of other sponsors and the family stuff, so why should he ride here?”

“He does ride here. That’s what I’m saying. So why would he turn down being paid for it?”

I can tell this is an old argument. And while it’s kind of fun to watch the dynamics of my aunt and uncle’s relationship, this isn’t telling me anything about Z that I don’t already know. Which is why, when my uncle pauses to take another bite of chicken, I take the opportunity to jump back into the conversation.

“So, you think he’s good enough to sponsor, but you don’t think he’s good enough to make the Olympics.”

My uncle stops eating, even goes so far as to lay his fork and knife down. Then he looks me straight in the eye. “It’s not a matter of talent, Ophelia. Everyone knows that kid has more talent than is probably good for him. But he’s an absolute train wreck, and you should stay as far away from him as possible.”

“You need to cut the kid some slack,” my aunt tells him. “He’s had it rough with his mom and sister. What happened with them—”

“He has had it rough. I’m not denying that. And anyone who’s had things as bad as he has doesn’t come out of it without being damned warped. Everyone knows the kid’s got a death wish, and sooner or later it’s going to come to fruition. Do you really want her around him when it does? Hasn’t she been through enough already?”

My aunt doesn’t have anything to say to that, and neither do I, so after another stern warning for me to stay away from Z, my uncle turns the conversation to other things. Somehow I manage to keep up my end of it, even though my mind is about a million miles away. I’m thinking about Z, wondering what could have happened with his family that would “warp” him, as my uncle says. And, despite my best intentions, I’m also thinking about Remi. About his devil-may-care smile and balls-to-the-wall attitude about life.

He spent his whole life going faster, burning brighter, being crazier than anyone else around. And when we were together, I loved every second of it. He was so mercurial, so brilliant, so wild, that every minute I was with him was an upside-down roller-coaster ride. One I happily strapped in for.

It’s only now that I’m on the other side that I realize just how messed up the ride really was.

And if Z’s like that … if he’s as messed up and crazy as my uncle says he is, then I really should stay as far away from him as I can get.

Which is fine. I barely know the guy, and it’s not like our first few meetings went all that smoothly. I’ll probably never have the chance to talk to him again.

Still, as I help my uncle clean the dishes before heading across the property to my room, I can’t help thinking about the look in Z’s eyes right before he walked out the other night. And hating myself for putting it there.

Chapter 11

Z

“Hey, man,” Ash says, clapping me on the shoulder as I climb off the snowmobile. “Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back,” I tell him, even though I’m not sure I mean it. But what the hell else am I supposed to do now that Luc’s given me an ass kicking I won’t soon forget? After my three-day bender, booze and weed hold no appeal at the moment, and every time I think about going out and getting laid, something holds me back.

Maybe it’s Luc’s words about how fucking empty my life is.

Maybe it’s waking up and finding Stacy in my bed with absolutely no recollection of how she got there.

Or maybe it’s everything that went down with Ophel—

Oh, hell no. I cut that thought off before it can even form. I’ve got enough crazy in my life. The last thing I need is to waste my time thinking about some girl who definitely isn’t thinking about me. And who obviously has a shit-ton of her own issues to deal with.

“So we’re taping today?” I ask, nodding at the GoPro Hero3+ Ash is currently attaching to the front of his snowboard. He’s got it mounted to an old ski pole so he gets a better view than from the bottom of the board, but that means he has to put a shitload of adhesive on it if he doesn’t want the thing to fly off during the run. We’ve already lost two cameras between us this season, and powder’s only been on the ground a few weeks.

“Yeah. Gotta update the website. The fans keep asking for new film.” He holds a chest harness already outfitted with a camera out to me. “Here. Put this on, will you? I’m sure no one will want to miss any of your epic stupidity.”

I roll my eyes at him even as I take the camera. “You know you don’t have to give them everything they ask for, right?”

“Yeah, I know. But the footage usually turns out sick, so why not? Besides, it’s been a few days since you’ve been out. I figure, if I’m lucky, I’ll catch you doing some crazy-ass shit.”

“I don’t know about that. I think I might be taking it slow today.”

Cam speaks up for the first time since I got here. “Yeah, right. We’ll believe that when we see it.”

“I guess you will.” I start to tease her about her new jacket—the thing is neon orange and makes her look like a traffic cone—but there’s something about the way she’s looking at me that makes me shut my mouth and take a few steps back.

Most days I get the feeling that Cam can see through my bullshit, but right now the look in her eyes says that she can see a lot more. That she can actually see me, and that’s something I’m totally not okay with. I’ve spent most of my life working hard not to look at what’s inside me, and after Luc’s onslaught yesterday, I sure as shit don’t need anyone else poking around in there trying to see what’s up. I already feel like I’m on the verge of imploding. If anything else happens, I don’t even want to think about how bad shit’s going to get.

With that happy thought in mind, I take a few more steps back. Walk over to the edge of the mountain we’re on, and look out at the view. It’s fucking gorgeous up here. Completely breathtaking. Blue sky, white clouds, snow-covered peaks as far as the eye can see, pine trees dripping with snow.

I think about moving sometimes, about walking away from all of this and just starting over somewhere else. Somewhere fresh where the past doesn’t haunt me at every twist and turn. But I don’t think I could ever leave these mountains, not for any length of time anyway. If it would actually bring me some modicum of peace, I could probably give up snowboarding and the adrenaline rush that comes with it. Maybe even give up my friends, if I had to, though just the thought stings like hell. But these mountains? They’re in my blood, in my soul, as surely as my memories of April are.

Besides, there’s no peace for me. There hasn’t been in over a decade and there won’t be any in the next decade, either. It’s probably time to stop pretending otherwise. After all, it’s not like I’ve done anything to deserve it anyway.

Behind me, Luc and Ash are still working on getting Ash’s cam properly situated. Luc has one, too, though he’s doing a helmet mount with it instead of a board or chest mount. My guess is he’s planning on going down right behind Ash to catch as much of his run for the website as he possibly can. Having the tricks from two angles and then editing the footage together usually makes for wicked videos.

Surprised Cam isn’t helping them—she’s definitely the electronics guru of our little ragtag band of brothers—I’m about to go offer my services before Luc ends up pitching the camera off the side of the mountain on purpose. But Cam moves into my path before I can do much more than take a step in their direction.

For long seconds she doesn’t say anything. Just stands there and stares at me with a look I don’t want to try to interpret. I smile at her, then start to walk around her, but she steps closer and puts a hand on my chest to hold me in place.

I stiffen despite myself, then glance at Luc to see if he’s now plotting to throw me off the mountain. But he’s too absorbed in the camera debacle at the moment to pay much attention to where Cam is or what she’s doing.

“What’s up?” I ask her after the silence between us gets uncomfortably long.

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me too.” I shoot her a baffled look. “I thought we were talking right now.”

“You know what I mean. I’m worried about you. We all are.”

Damn. Now it’s a tag-team intervention? What the hell does a guy have to do to self-destruct in peace around here? “I’m fine, Cam.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.” My heart’s pounding like I just barged a run, and it’s all I can do to stand still. I wait another few seconds, expecting her to step back, hoping she’ll take the hint and stop touching me. But she doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer, wraps her arm around my waist, rests her head on my shoulder. I can feel it—the pressure building up inside me until I’m like the cork in a champagne bottle that’s been shaken way too much.

When I can’t take it any longer, I step away.

Make a show of zipping up my jacket.

And ignore the look of hurt that flashes across her face.

Immediately the cold seeps back in, but I refuse to react. Cam’s watching me closely, looking for any chink in my armor, and I refuse to give it to her. Refuse to let her in any closer than she already is. She might be my friend along with Ash and Luc, but there are some things even best friends shouldn’t see. Shouldn’t know.

Except … “I know this is a bad week for you, Z. You can run from it all you want, but it’s not going to go away.”

This time when she places a hand on my shoulder, it’s pure instinct to knock it off. Pure self-preservation. “Jesus, Cam, will you please just leave it the fuck alone? If I wanted to go all hippie commune and talk about my shit, believe me, I would.”

“It’s not healthy—”

“Really?” I cut her off. “What about my life makes you think I give a fuck about being healthy?”

“Come on, Z.”

“You come on.” I drop my board on the ground, strap my right foot in.

Cam knows what’s going to happen, and she narrows her eyes at me even as she steps back to give me room. “You can’t run away from this conversation forever, you know.”

The adrenaline rush is already starting, drowning out her voice and all the other shit I don’t want to deal with right now. I look back at Luc and Ash, who’ve finally got their cameras mounted and working, and think about joining them on the run they’re about to take. It’s what they’re expecting, and I almost do it. Almost push off and glide over there so we can board the trail together. We’re backcountry, so the run is pretty raw and unstructured, but the truth is it’s just not what I’m in the mood for right now. I want something hard, something that’ll take every ounce of concentration I’ve got. Maybe then I can stop thinking about all the different ways I’ve fucked up.

With that in mind, I strap my left foot in, and without giving the others any warning about what I’m planning, I push off from the little plateau I’m on.

And then I’m fucking flying.

Cam screams as I go over the edge, but the sound is drowned out in the rush as I board straight down the side of this fucking mountain. There’s no real trail, no path to follow, nothing but a narrow crevice with steep walls on either side.

One wrong move and I’m toast—I can slam into one of the jagged walls, plow into one of the huge rocks that spring up every few feet, or just lose control and go tumbling head over heels. But I’m not planning on doing any of the above. At least not right now. This is virgin backcountry chute, and I’m riding this bitch all the way down.

There’s a dip up ahead of me and I know if I hit it at just the right speed and angle, it’ll launch me about twenty feet into the air, so I brace myself, get ready—

Hot fucking damn. I really am flying. I pull a trick, a sick 1080 inverted cab, then bend my knees and brace myself for the first landing. I hit hard but keep control as I rocket down what is now an almost completely vertical chute.

I have one brief holy-shit moment, one quick second to think that maybe this isn’t a good idea after all. But it’s too fucking late to worry about dying. All I can do now is ride.

So I do, twisting and turning to accommodate the rock formations and trees and fucking boulders that seem to pop up out of nowhere. I hit a couple more lips, catch some sick air off them, and manage to bust out a couple more tricks. I pull off another 1440 and a wicked double backside rodeo 1080, but most of the time I’m just enjoying the most kick-ass ride of my life.

In the middle of it all, my sat phone starts to ring. I know it’s Ash or Cam or Luc calling to bitch me out, but it’s not like I can exactly answer right now. I’m too busy trying not to die.

I hit another lip, this one so huge I’d swear it was a man-made ramp if I didn’t know better. Bracing myself, I do everything I can to gather speed going into it, ’cuz the only thing worse than coming off one of these things fast is coming off it slow.

I make it up the ramp, launch out into the air, and have my second—and biggest—oh-shit moment of the ride. Because there’s nothing fucking there. I’m free-falling … fifty, a hundred, two hundred feet, maybe more. I can’t tell at this point. It’s fucking ridiculous. The biggest air of my life and I’m too focused on trying to find the ground to even pull a trick.

Finally—finally—it’s rushing at me. I twist around, try to get a decent look at what I’m going to be dealing with when I come down. The slant is good and the pow looks like it’s packed pretty tight in this area, so I deliberately relax, loosening my limbs so I won’t hyperextend anything when I land.

I land better than I have any right to, on a slope that’s much milder than the one I just came off. I think I’m getting pretty low, figure the ride has to be almost over, so I put everything I’ve got into it, building up my speed for what I figure has to be the last jump. This whole ride has been fucking front, so what the hell. I pull out the trick I’ve been working on in secret, the one nobody knows about and that I’ve never seen anybody land before.

The triple McTwist 1440.

Shaun White invented the double McTwist 1260, made it famous all over the world. But with the right air, I know I can get an extra twist and an extra half rotation, and I can’t think of a better time to try it. I hit the slope just right, gain some sick air, and just go for it.

I nail it.

I fucking nail it, right before I land in the middle of the fucking worst grouping of trees I’ve ever seen. Then I’m speeding down the last section of the mountain, weaving between trees and praying that I don’t slam into one at fifty miles an hour.

Somehow, somehow, I manage to avoid them all and come to an abrupt—and somewhat anticlimactic—stop at the bottom of the mountain.

I turn and look as far up the mountain as I can see and decide two hundred feet was a really conservative estimate for that drop in the middle of the run. From here it looks more like two-fifty.

I lean down to unbuckle my board, but my phone’s ringing for the third or fourth time and I figure I should put my friends out of their misery before one of them has a fucking stroke. I rip open the Velcro on my pants pocket and pull the phone out, answering right before it goes to voicemail.

“Hey, Cam.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Omigod. Omigooooooood!” She’s shrieking by the end, then her voice gets muffled for a second as she yells, “He answered! He answered!

“How could you?” She’s talking to me again. “We thought you were dead. We thought you’d fucking killed yourself. We thought—” She starts sobbing.

Shit. Guilt slams into me, killing the endorphins from the ride. I knew they’d be worried, but I never thought—

“Give me the phone,” I hear Ash say in the background. Then he’s on the line. “Z? Are you hurt? Where are you?”

“No, I’m fine. Totally safe. I’m at the bottom of the mountain.”

Long pause. “You’re at … you’re at the bottom of the mountain?”

“Pretty much.”

“You rode down the whole fucking mountain? The. Whole. Fucking. Mountain?”

“As much of it as I could. I mean, I’m not all the way at the base, but I’m pretty far down. In my defense, it’s a pretty small mountain.” I hear Luc swear in the background, and Cam finally seems to have the sobs under control. “I’m fine,” I say again. “No problem.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that, right? A total fucking moron.”

“I never claimed differently.”

Another long pause. Then, “So, was it front?”

I relax at the question, knowing I’m out of the woods. “So fucking front, man. You wouldn’t even believe it.”

“Was the camera on?”

“What? No. I never turned it on.”

“I did, right before I gave it to you.”

“Seriously?” I glance down at the camera still strapped to my chest. Sure enough, the little green power light is lit.

I stare at it for a second, trying to decide how I feel about that. Sure, part of me thinks it’d be wicked to have the ride recorded, but another part wants to keep it for myself. In some ways, what happened on the way down feels too intensely private to share with anyone.

Except Luc, Ash, and Cam deserve to see what happened. After what they’ve spent the last few minutes imagining, I figure I owe them that much. Showing them doesn’t mean it has to be posted on the website or YouTube. It could just be for us.

“Yeah, I got the footage.”

“Excellent! I want to see every second of it.”

“I figured.”

“I’ve got a question, though.”

“Yeah?”

“How the hell are you going to get back up here? I don’t think the snowmobile is going to make it down the route you took, and our trail doesn’t lead anywhere close to that far down the mountain.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking about that.”

“And what did you decide?”

Once I switch the phone to the local GPS/hiking app, it only takes a minute to find what I’m looking for. “I’m only about a three-hour hike from Lost Canyon Resort. You can pick me up there when you’re done boarding for the day.”

“Seriously? You’re going to hike through the mountains for three hours after that run?”

I think of all the shit cluttering up my head—April, my mom, the upcoming competitions, Ophelia. I don’t want to think about any of it, don’t want to deal with any of it. And since I can’t drink and I can’t screw, I might as well put in some hard physical labor. If I’m exhausted, then maybe I can actually fall asleep without being drunk off my ass.

“I think so.”

“All right.” He sounds doubtful, but he’s not going to argue. “Just call us when you get to the lodge so we know we don’t have to send the ski patrol out after your ass.”

“One time. One fucking time and you’ve never let me forget it.”

“And I never will.” There’s a long pause, and I’m about to hang up when he says, “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

I try to play it off. “Me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah. Right.” He pauses for a moment, and I hear him talking to one of the others in the background. When he comes back on, he says, “Cam says to tell you you’re an asshole.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “I never pretended to be anything but. You’re the ones who keep thinking there’s something else there.”

Chapter 12

Ophelia

“Hey, Ophelia, you heading back to the dorms?” Harvey asks, running to catch up with me as I push my way through the heavy front doors of Lost Canyon Lodge’s main building.

“I am, yeah.”

It’s been a long crazy day and I’m exhausted, even though it’s only about four in the afternoon. I didn’t sleep well last night, haven’t slept well since that whole thing with Z, to be honest, and the hectic pace of the café today totally tired me out. The last thing I want to do right now is to walk the three miles of trails back to the dorm, but that’s what I get for refusing to drive.

“Do you mind if I catch a ride? My car’s in the shop. Busted alternator.”

“Ooh, bummer.” I’ve dealt with cars enough to know. “Those things aren’t cheap.”

“Tell me about it.” He looks at me expectantly. “So, do you mind giving me a ride?”

“I wouldn’t mind at all, but I’m walking myself. You can keep me company, if you’d like. We can talk about Anthem, if you’ve finished it.”

“I have, actually. But why aren’t you driving? Is something wrong with your car, too?”

Nope. My baby is in tip-top shape. Or at least she was the last time I turned her on. Which was just about two weeks ago, now that I think about it. The day I got here and got settled into the dorms. For all I know, she could be a holy-shit-what-have-you-done-to-me mess by now. She did spend her whole life in New Orleans before this. Utah’s probably a huge shock for the poor thing.

I don’t say any of this to Harvey, though. I don’t want to have to explain what I barely understand myself. So instead I just tell him, “I felt like walking this morning. Wanted the exercise.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, but he doesn’t complain as we veer off the main path and onto the winding trail that will take us to the dorms. I’ve taken it twice a day, every day, for the last two weeks, so I’m pretty familiar with it. But still, on days like today, when clouds have moved in, darkening the sky, I can’t help but get freaked out by how ominous it feels. Especially since the path isn’t used very much.

“It’s nice to have company, though,” I tell him with a smile. “Makes the time go faster.”

We spend the next fifteen minutes or so talking about Ayn Rand and Anthem and how messed up it is that a woman who wrote a book like that also participated in the Communist witch hunt of the 1950s.

“It just makes no sense,” I tell him. “If she’s all about how individuality and ego are the only things that matter, how could she have any part in a panel whose sole purpose was to punish people it believed thought differently? I don’t get it.”

“Is that really surprising to you? I thought artists were known for not making sense. Or at least for being completely hypocritical.”

“Not all of them,” I say. “Some of my favorite people in the world are artists of one type or another. They’re really passionate and kind of self-absorbed, but I wouldn’t call them hypocritical.”

I think of Remi, who was amazing at drawing. He didn’t let many people see that side of him—I don’t know if he was afraid it wasn’t tough enough for the neighborhood we lived in or if he just wanted to keep it to himself—but he had well over a dozen sketch pads filled with the most beautiful drawings. When he died, his mother gave all but one of them to me.

They’re one of the few things I actually brought with me from New Orleans. I haven’t been able to open them yet, haven’t been able to look at the dark lines and broad strokes that make up so much of Remi’s sketches, but I can’t let them go, either. Someday, I tell myself. Someday, maybe, it won’t hurt when I try to open them.

“Maybe I’m biased,” Harvey said. “My mom was a singer. She ran out on us when I was little because she had to ‘follow her bliss.’ I don’t think my dad ever got over it.”

“My dad did almost that same thing.”

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry.”

“No big deal. I was a baby, so I never got the chance to know him.” I reach over and put a hand on his arm. “But I’m sorry about your mom.”

We’re almost at the end of the woods now, with only about half a mile between us and the warmth of the dorm, and I can’t wait to get there. My fingers and toes are completely numb, and even though I’m wearing a hat and scarf, my ears and nose feel like they might actually be getting frostbitten.

How the hell do people actually live up here? Sure, it’s beautiful, but there are lots of beautiful places in the world where snow doesn’t cover the ground for six months of the year. Like Tahiti. Or Brazil. Or, hell, Ethiopia. It’s getting to the point where I don’t care where I go as long as it’s away from here.

I start to quicken my pace—I can almost feel my flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers—but Harvey stops me with a hand to my elbow.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. For a second, my mind is filled with images of wolves or bobcats or whatever the hell kind of wildlife lives up here. Every time I walk this stupid trail, I have visions of being dragged off into the wilderness by some starving animal with really sharp teeth and a love of human flesh. Overly dramatic, maybe, but I’m a city girl and have no problem admitting it.

“Nothing.” Harvey tugs off one of his gloves, then brushes ice-cold fingers to my face. “Your cheeks are really pink.”

Alarm bells start going off in my head. Still, I shove them back, try to convince myself that I’m wrong. The last thing I need is for Harvey to make a play for me—he’s pretty much the only friend I’ve got here and I don’t want to ruin that by rejecting him.

“It’s the wind,” I tell him, taking a couple of steps back. “I think it’s flayed off the first three layers of my skin.”

He doesn’t get the hint. Instead, he moves a couple of steps closer, strokes his fingers down my hair.

“I need to get going,” I tell him. “I told my mom I’d call her at four-thirty and it’s almost that now.”

“You’re really pretty. You know that, right?” He plunges his hands deeper into my hair—hard enough for my hat to fall off—and his fingers tangle in the strands.

“Harvey.” I put a hand on his chest, try to push him back a little. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

For some crazy, godforsaken reason, Z’s face pops into my head at the question. Not Remi, but Z. It freaks me out so much that I end up shoving Harvey away, hard—and nearly losing a chunk of my hair in the process.

“Ow!” My hand goes to the sore spot where he pulled my hair. “What the hell was that for?”

“Why’d you push me away like that?” Suddenly he’s even closer than before. And this time the closeness doesn’t seem nearly as innocuous as it did a couple of minutes ago. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“I know. It’s just—” I start to tell him about Remi, but I never talk about him. Never. And I’m not going to start now just to make some guy who has definitely overstepped his bounds feel better.

“What? I’m not good enough for you because I’m a dishwasher?”

“I never said that,” I tell him, even as I start to back away from him. The alarm bells have become full-fledged shrieks and whistles, along with a get-the-hell-out-of-there-girl warning that I have no intention of ignoring. “I thought we were friends.”

“What if I don’t want to be your friend?” He grabs my arms, hauls me in closer to him. “What if I want to be more?”

Shit. This isn’t going to end well. I can tell already. I try to pull away from him, but he tightens his grip until his fingers are digging into my arms hard enough to cause pain.

“Let me go, Harvey.” I pull harder, wrenching my arms from his grasp, then stumble back and nearly fall flat on my ass, thanks to the snow. “I have to get back to my room. I’ve got to make that phone call.”

He reaches out to steady me, but I don’t want his help. I’d rather fall flat on my ass than take anything from a guy who thinks manhandling me is an effective means of communication.

“Hey, chill, Ophelia. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Yeah, I might believe that if I didn’t still feel the imprint of his fingers around my biceps. From the way it aches, I’m pretty sure he’s left a bruise. “Fine. Then let me go back to my room. I need to call my mom.” I repeat the info with the hope that it will sink into his thick skull.

How the hell did I get myself into this situation? I thought Harvey was a nice, harmless guy—probably because he reminds me of Remi’s BFF, Max, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I even wrote off the creepy way I saw him looking at me and some of the other girls as nervousness because he lacked social skills. It never occurred to me that something more sinister was going on. But obviously that was my freaking mistake. Turns out Harvey’s plans include a late afternoon fuck fest, one I’m suddenly thinking he won’t mind making into a rape fest if I don’t cooperate.

And I’m definitely not cooperating. But I’m not going to show fear, either. Not to this asshole who has delusions of being a player. It may be my own stupidity that got me into this mess—when the hell am I going to learn?—but I’m done playing nice. All that does is get me into trouble.

When he doesn’t say anything, I start to move around him, taking great care not to touch him. But he moves with me. Blocks my path. Goddamnit. He’s got a teasing smile on his face, like this is all a game, but I don’t want to play. Not now. Not with him.

“Come on, Harvey. I don’t have time for this.”

“Sure you do. You don’t have any plans tonight.”

The first stages of fear work their way through the mad. “How do you know what plans I have?”

“I asked around. I wanted to make sure you were free to have dinner with me.”

“Is there even anything wrong with your car?” I ask as all the pieces come together in my head.

He looks down, pretends to be embarrassed. “I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

Fuck. Every nerve ending I have is standing up in alarm now. I glance around, try to ignore my racing heart and sweating palms, but it’s not working. Not when panic is welling up inside me like a balloon on the verge of popping. It’s getting hard to breathe, hard to think. I’ve been here before, know where this is going to end up if I don’t get him away from me.

I want to make a run for it, but I’m still clumsy in snow. Half the time I end up falling if I try to walk too fast, and the last thing I want right now is to be on the ground with Harvey above me. “Let’s head to the cafeteria, then,” I finally say, hoping to appease him by sorta going along with what he wants. “I skipped lunch, so I’m totally up for a snack or something.”

He smiles triumphantly at my words, like he’s somehow won something. It makes me burn, and a million insults find their way to my tongue. I don’t voice any of them, though. Not out here where no one can hear me scream. Not out here where I’m at the mercy of this giant ape and his disgusting libido. As soon as I’m back at the employee lodge, I’m telling him off, then running to my room. And I’m not coming out until I’ve practiced all those self-defense moves Remi taught me when we first started dating.

There’s no way this is happening to me again. No way in hell.

I move to go around Harvey a second time, and this time he lets me pass. The panic recedes and I start to breathe easier, start to question if all the shit with my mom’s boyfriends through the years has made me overreact to what was nothing more than a simple advance.

But then he grabs me from behind, wraps his arms around my middle, and pulls my back flush against his front. He bends down and whispers something in my ear, his breath hot and disgusting against my cheek. I can’t hear what he’s saying over my own harsh breathing and the strangled screams working their way out of my throat. “Stop!” I tell him, struggling against him with every ounce of strength I have.

He just laughs, holds me tighter. That’s when I feel it poking against my lower back. He’s hard. My stomach turns, and for a second I think I really am going to puke. But I can’t, not now. He’s big and strong and about seven inches taller than I am, and I need every ounce of concentration I have if I’m going to get out of this.

“Relax,” he says as he lifts me off my feet in an obscene version of a bear hug. “I’m just playing with you.”

“Then let me go. I don’t want to play.” I jab my elbow back into his ribs, but it doesn’t have much impact. “Please, let me go.”

“Sure, of course.” He puts my feet back on the ground, loosens his grip just enough to slide a hand under my jacket and sweater. His rough palm is on my stomach now, on my skin, and terror is a deadly sharp icicle within me. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ophelia. I just want—”

He goes flying before he can finish his reassurance. I don’t expect it and I’m straining so hard in the other direction that I stumble forward, hard, the second he releases me. A strong arm wraps around my waist right before I slam into the ground, keeps me from falling face-first into the snow. I know it isn’t Harvey this time, can feel the difference in the arm holding me and the spicy cinnamon scent of the man it belongs to, but still I freak out. Start shoving and clawing to get away. I can’t think, can’t breathe. I can’t—

He lets go immediately, takes a couple of steps away. “Hey, Ophelia, are you all right?”

I turn my head to see Z standing there, his hands raised in front of him in a gesture I know he means to be nonthreatening, reassuring. And it is. Somehow I know that the rage burning in his eyes isn’t for me. That he won’t hurt me.

Harvey, though, is another matter entirely. Z’s looking at him like he wants to kill him. And maybe it’s wrong of me, but I just can’t work up the will to care. Not right now, when I can still feel Harvey’s hand on my stomach, his fingers creeping toward my bra.

Still, I hate anyone seeing me this vulnerable. I dash a glove across my face, brush at the weak, useless tears I didn’t even know I was crying. But they’re frozen to my cheeks and they don’t budge. Not really.

“Answer me, Ophelia.” Z’s voice is strained, worried. “Are. You. All. Right?”

“I’m fine.” I take a deep breath, tell myself that it’s true. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“I swear,” I reassure him, making sure my voice doesn’t tremble this time. “I’m okay.”

It must work, because he nods before switching his attention to Harvey, who is just now climbing off the ground where Z threw him. “Hey, man, what the hell was that for?” he complains as he picks his hat out of the snow.

Z doesn’t answer, just plows a fist straight into Harvey’s face. Harvey rears back as blood starts leaking from a cut on his cheekbone. He touches his cheek, looks down at his crimson-streaked gloves. Then launches himself at Z with a bellow of rage.

He’s bigger than Z—a couple of inches taller and probably fifty pounds heavier—but Z doesn’t so much as flinch. He just meets him head-on, with a fist to the stomach so powerful that it leaves Harvey gasping for air. Then Z really gets to work.

It’s over almost before it starts. A few jabs, an uppercut, and a hard roundhouse to the gut and Harvey is laid out in the snow, groaning. Z stands over him, fists clenched, face livid with rage. “What’s the matter, asshole? You only like to hurt girls? Come on, I’ll give you a free shot. Let you see what it feels like to hit a man this time.”

Harvey doesn’t move, so Z bends down, goes to punch him again. I get in the middle before his fist can land. Defending someone is one thing, but if Z does any more damage, he’s going to end up in jail, and he doesn’t deserve that, not when he’s just trying to help me.

“That’s enough.” I put my hand on his elbow. “Harvey’s had enough.”

Z shrugs me off. “It’s not enough. Someone needs to teach the fucker that he can’t go around putting his hands on women just because he feels like it.” He draws one booted foot back and kicks Harvey in the ribs. Then does it a second and a third time.

Harvey groans, curls up into a little ball to get away from Z’s blows. “Z, stop!” I grab him this time, try to pull him away, but once again, he shakes me off. He doesn’t seem to hear me. All he hears, all he can focus on, is Harvey.

“You don’t look so strong now, Harvey. Rolling around on the ground. Begging like a little bitch. How’s it feel not to be the strong one, huh? How’s it feel not to be the one in control?” He kicks him again.

Shit. If I don’t do something, and quickly, Z’s going to kill him. It’s in every fury-filled line of his body, in every enraged word that comes out of his mouth.

I rush him from the side, shove him as hard as I can just as he raises his leg to kick Harvey again. My attack catches him off balance, and it’s his turn to stumble. He regains his balance, then turns to me with a confused look on his face. “What’d you do that for?”

“Look at him.” I point at Harvey, who’s whimpering as he curls himself into the fetal position and waits for more blows to rain down on him.

But there aren’t going to be any more. My shove was the wake-up call Z needed. He’s finished. I can see it from the look in his eyes, like he’s just waking up from a particularly realistic nightmare.

Like he can’t believe what he’s done.

I don’t know why, but I reach for him. I should be terrified by his display of violence, by the way he lost himself in his own head. But I’m not. There’s something about the way he touched me, the way he came to my rescue, that tells me he won’t hurt me. At least not with his fists. Besides, if he’d wanted anything from me, he could have had it four nights ago.

It only takes Harvey a couple of seconds to figure out the attack has stopped. Once he glances at Z and realizes he’s not going to get hit again, he unrolls himself and climbs laboriously to his feet. “I was just having some fun, man,” he says in a whiny, high-pitched voice that makes me wish Z would hit him again. “I wasn’t going to hurt her.”

I think about the bruises on my arms, the pain in my back and shoulders. He’s already done damage and he doesn’t even know. Or, more likely, it’s that he doesn’t care.

“Get the fuck out of my face, asshole.” Z glares at him, takes a menacing step forward. “And if I ever catch you near Ophelia again, I’ll kill you.”

Ice runs down my spine. Not at the threat, but at the deadly soft conviction behind the words. A part of me thinks they aren’t for show, that Z really means them.

Harvey must think so, too, because he goes deathly white before spinning around and fleeing in the direction of the lodge as fast as his injured body can carry him.

After he disappears into the trees, I turn to Z. “Are you okay?” He’s stretching out his hand like it really hurts. Which, of course, it must. It’s bruised and swollen, the knuckles split open from the force with which his fist connected with Harvey’s face. The fact that he wasn’t wearing gloves, that his hands are ice cold, has only aided in the damage.

He’s also trembling, whether with cold or reaction I’m not sure. But I can’t leave him out here. Not when he just saved me from a fate I don’t even want to think about. Damn Harvey and his hey-can-I-hitch-a-ride approach. And damn me for being stupid enough to fall for it. I’m turning into one of those too-stupid-to-live heroines from horror movies and I don’t like it, at all.

“Where did you even come from?” I ask, looking around. Until we get to the employee lodge, there’s nothing out here at all. Just snow and trees and rocky cliffs.

“I’ve been hiking.” He walks about fifty feet away and picks up the snowboard he obviously dropped on his rush to rescue me.

“With a snowboard?” I ask, incredulously.

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“Yeah, well, it looks like you’ve got time to tell it to me.” I take the board from him. “Come on. Let’s go back to my room so I can clean you up.”

“You don’t have to do that.” He doesn’t move. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. You’re the one who looks half frozen.” I glance down at his clothes, realize they’re wet and covered in ice in a bunch of places. “Hey, what happened to you anyway?”

Those wild sapphire eyes of his jump to mine. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re soaking wet. Did you fall?”

The left corner of his mouth lifts up in that crooked smile I can’t help appreciating. “Something like that.”

“Well, hurry up then. You’re going to freeze to death out here.” Even snowboarding pants can’t protect him completely from all that ice.

“It’s fine. I’m cool.”

“No shit you’re cool. That’s why your teeth are chattering.”

The crooked smile becomes a full-blown grin. “You think you’re pretty smart, huh, Ophelia?”

I think of Harvey. Of the mess I helped make back in New Orleans. Of the way standing too close to Z makes my breath catch even though I know better. “Smart’s not the first adjective that comes to mind. Now, let’s get going before you turn into a Popsicle.”

When he still makes no move to follow me, I move closer. Wrap an arm around his waist. God, he really is freezing.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” His way-too-cold hands reach up to cup my face in a way-too-familiar gesture. After the way we left things Friday night, it should piss me off—I don’t like being touched at the best of times—but somehow it doesn’t. The concern I can see in his eyes makes me feel good. Safe, even, and I haven’t felt like that in more months than I can count.

“I’m fine,” I tell him one more time, and this time it feels like the truth. “You got here before he could do anything but annoy me.” I push against Z’s waist to propel him forward, and this time he actually moves with me. “Thanks for the rescue, by the way.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a rescue.”

“Oh, yeah? What would you call it, then?”

“A helping hand. You were holding your own pretty damn well. Besides, I’m not exactly the type to rescue damsels in distress.”

I’m not so sure about that.

He stopped for me at the bus stop, then drove all the way up to the employee housing, out of his way, just to make sure I was safe.

He stopped when we were going at it, when no other guy would have, just because he realized I wasn’t into what we were doing.

And now this. He pulled Harvey off me. He stood between us. He made sure, before he did anything, that I was okay. Much as I’d like to agree with his assessment of himself, much as it would make things easier, I have to admit he feels a little bit like a hero to me. Which only makes all the shit that’s gone down between us seem even stranger.

We don’t say anything else until we get back to the lodge. I don’t know what to say, and I guess Z doesn’t, either. Nothing that’s happened in our messed-up relationship so far could have prepared me for the fact that he’d be the guy stepping up to stop me from being raped.

“Take your pants off,” I say as the door to my room closes behind us.

He turns to me with a teasing look. “Aren’t you at least going to buy me dinner first? I’m not the kind of guy to just get naked.”

I roll my eyes even as I reach for an extra blanket from the cupboard next to my bed and toss it to him. “You’re exactly that kind of guy, as Friday night proved. And as charming as the thought of you naked is, I was thinking more along the lines of preventing hypothermia rather than having my wicked way with you.”

“So you say, but we both know the truth.” He snaps the blanket in the air a couple of times to unfold it. “Not that I mind.”

“And here I was afraid of offending your delicate sensibilities.”

He laughs, loud and long. As he does, the sensitive, worried guy from earlier fades away, only to be replaced by the cocky bastard that most of the world sees when they look at him. The transformation should annoy me, but strangely it doesn’t. Not when he smiles at me and says, “I like you.”

“I like you, too,” I answer brusquely, determined not to let him see how off-kilter being around him makes me feel. “Now get changed.”

“If you insist.” He reaches for the tie at the top of his pants and undoes it.

“Stop!” I screech, whirling around to face the wall away from him. “What is it with you and taking your clothes off in front of people? There’s a bathroom right through that door.” I point blindly.

He chuckles. “What’s the big deal? It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Besides, nothing’s showing. It’s way too cold for me to go commando.”

I don’t answer him, just groan and cover my eyes with my hands. Now that I’m not trying to have sex with him to get rid of him, I can’t believe he’s stripping in my room. Right in front of me. This is what I get for trying to return the favor he did me.

A half-naked Z in my bedroom.

My stomach flips a couple of hundred times at the thought, and unlike outside with Harvey, it’s not such a terrible feeling. Which just makes the whole situation feel worse. Remi hasn’t been dead quite a year yet, and here I am thinking about Z naked. Not just about having sex with him for expediency’s sake, but about kissing him, touching him, letting him touch me.

He’s everything I don’t want in a guy, everything I know to stay away from, and yet I’m standing here wondering what I’m missing by staring at the wall and not at him.

Just goes to show how screwed up my judgment really is.

“You can look now. The wet clothes are off.”

I realize my mistake as soon as I turn around. Z didn’t tell me that he was covered, only that the wet clothes were gone. And they are. But the blanket I gave him is crumpled on the floor at his feet and he’s standing there, watching me, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs and gray socks with a small hole over his right baby toe.

For long seconds I can do nothing but stare. He should look ridiculous with his socks all slumped down like that and his toe poking through, but he doesn’t. Instead, he’s gorgeous. All long and lean and bronzed and muscled. And hot. So fucking hot I can feel my entire body catching fire at the sight of him. The quivering in my stomach moves lower and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to touch him. Or, better yet, lick him.

He’s got his snakebites in this afternoon, and suddenly I want to know what the little silver balls will feel like against my lips when I kiss him. If I kiss him. Which I won’t. I’m done with adrenaline junkies just asking to get killed. And even if I wasn’t, the glimpses I’ve seen of him—of the scars on his body and the ones that lurk beneath his pretty-boy facade—scare the hell out of me. So that’s it. I’m grateful for what he did, but I’m done. Finished. I’ll dry his clothes, but then he has to go.

“Give me your stuff,” I tell him in the most I’m-so-not-impressed-with-your-beautiful-body voice I can manage. Of course, it’d probably be more convincing if I could catch my breath. “I’ll run down and put everything in the dryer.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I kind of do. It seems ungracious to let you freeze to death after you kept me from turning into another statistic.”

“Hey. That asshole wasn’t going to hurt you. I wouldn’t have let him.”

“I know.”

Instead of wrapping up in the blanket I gave him earlier, he reaches for the tangle of blankets on my unmade bed, pulls the top one off, and winds it around himself. Then he buries his face in it and pulls a deep breath in through his nose. My whole body goes hot when I figure out what he’s doing. He picked that blanket so he could smell me on it, so he’d be wrapped in my scent.

The thought does all kinds of crazy things to me, gives me all kinds of feels I just don’t want. It’s all I can do to keep from ripping it off him again. But then I’d be faced with that chest and those abs and all those gorgeous tattoos.

At this point, I don’t know what would be worse.

The smirk on his face tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Of course he does. How could he not when girls drop at his feet wherever he goes?

Forcing my sudden attack of lust back down to wherever it came from, I gather up his clothes and a couple of dollars in quarters and run them down to the employee laundry room. When I get back, he’s standing in front of my bookshelf, my battered copy of Catcher in the Rye in his hands.

Why am I not surprised? Of course he’s a Holden Caulfield fan.

“You like this book?” he asks, his voice so casual that I know he’s really interested in the answer.

“Yeah. Do you?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never read it.”

“Not even junior year in high school?” I ask, surprised. I thought rich boys like him were all about fancy schools.

“I was never much of a student. By the time I was fifteen, I’d been kicked out of every major private school in Park City and Salt Lake City.”

Now that doesn’t surprise me at all. “You’d probably like that book, then.”

He glances at the innocuous red-and-white cover. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“The main character, Holden Caulfield, gets kicked out of a bunch of schools, too. He’s pretty much one of the best antiheroes ever written.” I move into my tiny little kitchen, which is really just a minifridge, a microwave, and the Keurig Remi bought me for Christmas last year. “You want some coffee or hot chocolate or something?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I gesture to the little carousel I’ve got that holds all the different K-cups, but he’s too interested in the blurb on the back of the book to notice. “You can borrow that if you want,” I tell him.

Immediately he puts it down. “No, that’s okay.”

“You sure? It’s a great story. With that book, Salinger proved—long before U.S. pop culture figured it out—that antiheroes actually make the best heroes.”

Now he looks at the book like it’s a king cobra that’s got him in its sights. “I’m good. I’ve never been much of a reader.”

“I didn’t used to be, either.” I pop my favorite kind of coffee into the Keurig, then hit brew. If he doesn’t like it, he should have told me what he wanted.

“Really? With a name like Ophelia, I kind of thought you’d be all about reading.”

Because I can sense the tension in him, I go with the change of topic. “Nope. Not really.”

“So, what changed?” he asks. At my blank look, he continues, “To get you reading? You’ve got a lot of books here.”

I think about those long weeks in the hospital, the longer weeks lying on the sofa at home, just waiting to get stronger. Just waiting for the pain to go away. It never did.

“It’s a long story.”

His usually cocky smile is gone, and in its place is an intensity that takes my breath away. “Seems like we have a lot of those between us, don’t we?”

“I guess we do.”

He catches my eye, holds my gaze for long seconds. “We going to do anything about that?”

Just the thought has my breath hitching in my throat. “I don’t know. I don’t … think so.”

He nods, like that’s exactly what he expected me to say. Then again, I’m pretty sure it’s what he would say if I asked about his secrets, so why wouldn’t he expect the same from me?

“Tell me something else, then.”

I gaze at him warily. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Tell me something, anything, about you.”

“Why should I?”

“Because if you do it, so will I.”

I can’t help smiling. “A little I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours?”

It’s only when he grins that I realize what I said—and what it sounds like. He doesn’t call me on it, though. Instead he smiles innocently and says, “I’m all for quid pro quo.”

But I can see his eyes, can see the way his pupils have dilated and his irises have turned a deep midnight blue. This is a bad idea.

Yet I can’t stop myself from smiling back. Any more than I can stop the words tumbling out of my mouth.

“I hate Brussels sprouts, cold weather, and guys who think they can have whatever they want.”

Chapter 13

Z

She’s playing with me. Ophelia’s playing with me, and I don’t know why it matters so much—it’s not like I’ve ever been very big on playing—but it does. It really fucking does.

I pick up my cup of coffee, take a long sip as I contemplate how I’m going to respond to what she said. Then, just as the smile on her face starts to fall—like she thinks I didn’t get what she was doing or something—I say, “I like peaches, fresh powder, and girls who don’t take shit from anybody.”

She laughs. “I like peaches, too.”

“I know.”

“How?” She stops in the middle of brewing herself a cup of coffee to look at me in surprise.

“Because you smell like them. Taste like them.” I hold the blanket out a little in front of me so she can’t see that just the thought of kissing her makes me hard. “When I first met you, I thought you were from Georgia.”

For long seconds she doesn’t answer. When she finally does, her voice is low. Husky. Like she just tumbled out of bed and into conversation with me. I like the sound of it. “Where are you from?”

“Park City, born and bred.”

“Really? I didn’t think any of the boarders were actually from here. I thought you guys moved here to train.”

“Most do. But Ash, Cam, Luc, and I were all raised here. We were boarding practically before we could stand.”

“Really?” She looks fascinated, so I continue.

“Yeah, though my dad put me on skis first. So much classier than snowboarding.”

“Still, he must be proud of you, right? You’re one of the top-ranked snowboarders in the country, about to take a shot at the Olympics.”

Shit. I should have known better than to bring up my dad. I never do, except with my friends, so the fact that he came up so easily with Ophelia kind of shocks me. Because it does, and because I feel like I need a little time to regroup, I take my coffee and head back over to the couch/bed.

Ophelia follows me, and though she sits next to me with no hesitation, there’s an awareness that sparks between us, one that only makes my dick harder—as well as my resolve to keep my hands off her.

“It’s my turn to ask a question,” I tell her, after pulling my attention away from her pink lips and pinker cheeks.

“Go for it.”

“If you hate the cold, what are you doing here? Because it’s obvious you didn’t come for the slopes.”

“I needed a job, and since my aunt and uncle manage Lost Canyon, they—”

“Alex and Penny are your aunt and uncle?”

“Yeah. You look shocked.”

“No, not shocked, just … Why aren’t you living with them instead of over here in the employee lodge?”

“They offered, but I chose to live here. They’re my family, but we’re not close.”

“Why not?”

“You do realize that you’ve asked three questions, right? Not just one?”

“Yes, but you only answered one of the questions, so I don’t think the fact that I asked three counts.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I think it does.”

“Fine. You ask me three questions and I’ll pick one to answer.”

“Technically, I answered two.”

“Yes, but you didn’t finish answering the first one—”

“Because you interrupted me!”

I shrug, try to look as innocent as possible. “Rules are rules, you know.”

“What rules?” she demands. “We never set any rules.”

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t any. I’m making them up as we go along.”

“Oh, really? And why do you get to make up the rules?”

I pretend to be shocked she even has to ask. “Because it’s my game.”

She frowns at me for a minute, then says, “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

“I do. Absolutely. Never pretended otherwise.”

She rolls her eyes, then reaches out to fake-punch me, but I grab her fist in my hand, gently pry her fingers open. Then, because I can’t stop myself even though I know it’s a bad idea, I press a kiss to the center of her palm.

Her eyes jump to mine, and for a second I think she might kick me out, blanket and all. God knows after what happened the last time I was here, I wouldn’t blame her if she did. But then she reaches her hand up to my face, traces my upper lip and then my bottom one with her index finger. And I know I’m not going anywhere.

“How come your room is so bare?” I ask. “There’s nothing personal in here at all.”

“That’s four questions and I never even got my one!”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Because you don’t deserve an answer.”

She starts to move away, but I grab her wrist, hold her in place. Then I open my mouth and suck her finger gently inside. Her breathing turns erratic and her eyes go forest green on me. Thank God. Though it’s only been a few minutes, it feels like I’ve been sitting here—aroused—for hours, while she just continued on, blissfully unaware. It’s not a predicament I’m used to.

Before I can do—or ask—anything else, her other hand comes up, cups my cheek, and for long seconds we just sit there, our eyes locked on each other’s. It’s strange and exhilarating and a little terrifying all at once, and there’s a part of my brain screaming at me to look away. To just back away.

I threw myself off the side of a mountain today, boarded terrain no one’s ever boarded before, and I swear it was a million times easier than this. And yet I don’t move. I barely breathe. I can’t. Because what I see in her eyes, what I see of her, is so fascinating, so heartbreaking, that for the first time in my life, I’m more interested in knowing about her than I am in my own self-preservation. It’s a strange feeling, and a confusing one.

I’m not sure how long we sit there just watching each other.

Long enough for twilight to turn to full dark outside her window.

Long enough for the wind to kick up and snow flurries to turn the air a bright white.

More than long enough for me to ask myself what the hell I’m doing … and to tell myself to get the hell out of Dodge.

In the end, I don’t go anywhere, though. I can’t, not when she’s looking at me like that, all trembling lips and wide, wild eyes.

“What are we doing?” she finally asks softly.

“I have no idea.”

“Me neither.”

And then she’s leaning forward, her lips brushing tentatively against my own.

There’s a part of me that wants to grab her. That wants to plunge my hands into her hair and just hold her in place as I explore every inch of her mouth. Every inch of her body.

But the other night is a specter in my head. and I know—I know—if she does that to me again, if she tunes out right in the middle of being with me, that it will bring me to my knees.

So I pull back gently, and this time I cup her face. Stroke my fingers over her jaw. Drop soft kisses over her eyes and cheeks and across the bridge of her nose.

“I should probably get going,” I tell her, though every instinct I have is screaming at me to stay. “Do you think my clothes are done?”

“What?” She looks at me with dazed, aroused eyes. “You want to leave?”

My laugh comes out strained. “I don’t want to leave, but I probably should.”

“Why?”

I shrug, not sure how to vocalize what I’m thinking without hurting her or sounding like an asshole. Dropping another kiss on her cheek, I start to stand up.

“Don’t go.” Ophelia throws her arms around my waist, and it’s such an unexpected move that it knocks me off balance. I end up tumbling back onto the bed.

She scrambles over me, straddles me as her hands fumble her sweater up and over her head. She’s wearing a worn, long-sleeved white T-shirt underneath that clings to her every curve, and I’m pretty sure I can see the shadow of her nipples through her bra.

Everything inside me goes tight—with desire, with need, with longing—and I know if I don’t get out of here soon I won’t be able to walk away. I want her too much.

“Baby, please.” I put my hands over hers, stop her from stripping away my self-control along with her T-shirt. “You don’t have to do this.”

“You don’t get it.” This time, when her eyes meet mine, they’re big and mossy green and shimmering with tears. “I want to feel. Something, anything. I’ve spent so long trying to be numb that I think I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be anything but. Please.” She pulls at the blanket, drops kisses on my shoulders, my neck, my chest. Runs her tongue along the unstructured lines of my tattoo. “Please, Z. Make me feel something. Make me feel anything.”

The words crash into me with the force of a tsunami, and they drag me under her spell. Because I know what she means. Fuck, I live with it every day and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Especially not this smart, funny, gorgeous girl who is finding a way to shake my world off its very axis.

Still, as she licks her way down my stomach, I manage to muster the strength to pull away—even as every cell in my body urges me to just take her. To just plunge inside her and let the consequences sort themselves out in the morning.

But that’s how I handle everything. Act first, think later. Because nothing’s ever mattered enough for me to worry about what comes after. About what comes next. And though I’ve only known Ophelia a few days, and even though they were strange and rocky days, there’s a part of me that thinks—that knows—that she might be important enough. This might be important enough, for me to take my time and think things through.

Which is why I ignore my throbbing cock and the need coursing through me like a runaway train and focus on her. Just her.

“If we do this, you have to be with me,” I tell her. “Every step of the way. You can’t check out on me like you did last time. I don’t think I can handle that again.”

Chapter 14

Ophelia

Z’s words seem to echo in the room even as they echo inside me, filling up all the empty space I’ve been rattling around in for so long. I look into his eyes and there’s that vulnerability again, the same as I witnessed the other night. I don’t think he lets anyone else close enough to see it.

I should let him go, let him walk out of here right now before this thing turns as ugly as I know it can. But I’m not that strong. Not tonight, when the emptiness is yawning inside me.

I’ve worked so hard not to miss Remi, not to feel the pain of losing him. But it’s there, whether I feel it or not, shredding me from the inside out. So why shouldn’t I say to hell with it? Why shouldn’t I let Z make me feel good, just for one night?

Just for one night.

“Why does this have to be so complicated?” I demand. “I want you. I think you want me. Why can’t we just make each other feel good?”

“Is that it?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Is this just about sex? Just about feeling good?”

I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone, like everything is topsy-turvy, upside down and inside out. This is Z Michaels—the fastest zipper in the West—asking these questions. Z Michaels who’s been with more girls than either of us could probably count if we had a year to do it in.

“I don’t understand,” I tell him. My voice is shaking now. I’m shaking, and I don’t know how to fix it, how to hide it. I don’t know how to fix anything anymore. “I just want … I just want to feel good for once. I just want—”

“Shh, baby. It’s okay. I get it.” Z shifts, turning us until we’re stretched out on the bed. Then he trails soft kisses along my jawline, down my neck. “I’ll make you feel good. I promise.”

He presses a kiss to the top of my head, then one to each of my cheeks. As he does, he mutters something about having sympathy for Hamlet under his breath. I don’t quite catch it, but heat crawls up my cheeks anyway.

I hate my name and all the implications that come with it.

Hamlet’s fragile girlfriend who’s driven insane by design and circumstance.

Who loses herself in the demands and machinations of the men in her life.

Who dies a terrible death because she can’t face the reality of what they’ve done to her—of what they’ve made her become.

When I first read Hamlet in school, I flat out asked my mom if she’d been drunk when she named me. Or if she just hated me. She hadn’t understood, but it turned out she’d never read Hamlet. She’d just liked the sound of Ophelia, and the idea of naming me after one of Shakespeare’s characters.

Go, Mom.

Too bad she hadn’t chosen Katharina from The Taming of the Shrew. My whole life might have turned out differently.

But she didn’t, and here I am with a guy who is guaranteed to mess with my head if I let him. Which I won’t. This is about pleasure, I remind myself. About losing myself for a little while. About feeling something after going so long without feeling anything.

Z continues pressing soft kisses across my cheeks, down my jaw, over my collarbone. At the same time, his hands skate around the waistband of my jeans, his fingers delving beneath denim to caress my abdomen and hips and ass.

They’re simple touches, but they feel good. Really good. Relief shudders through me as I arch beneath him, as I wind my arms around his neck and pull his mouth to mine. His eyes, his beautiful, mysterious eyes, meet mine, and there’s something there. Something I don’t understand. Something that sets warning bells ringing in my head.

“Z, I—”

This time he’s the one who presses his fingers to my mouth. “It’s okay, Ophelia. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And then he’s kissing me and kissing me and kissing me. Everything I’m thinking, everything I want to say, disappears in a maelstrom of desire as I give myself up to him. To this.

The second our bodies touch, sparks start flying all over the place. I take a deep breath, try to ground myself, but all that does is fill me with the spicy cinnamon and icy snow scent of Z. He smells good, really good, and I want nothing more than to burrow closer. To bury my face in the curve of his neck and just breathe him deep inside me.

He closes his eyes on a half laugh, half groan, then pulls me more tightly against him. I go willingly, even as a part of me wonders at how right this feels. His breath is hot against my cheek, his body hard against my own, and touching him feels good in a way nothing has for a very long time.

“What are you doing to me, Ophelia?” he murmurs after a few moments.

“I don’t know.” The words come out small, shaky.

“Yeah.” He presses a soft kiss into my hair. “Me neither.”

Then his hands are everywhere, everywhere, and I gasp as he flips us again, pulling me on top of him, helping me sit up with my knees on either side of his hips. I lean over, start to flip the light off, but he rests one big, scarred hand over mine.

“I want to see you,” he tells me.

“No.” I turn the light off.

He reaches over and turns it back on. “Okay, Ophelia. You’re going to need to tell me what’s going on, because I don’t understand this whole I-can-only-touch-you-in-the-dark thing. What are you so afraid of me seeing?”

For long seconds I don’t answer. I just stare at him, biting my lip as I figure out how much I want to tell him. Or, more specifically, how much I can get away with not telling him.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” He reaches up, presses on my lip until I let it slip out from between my teeth. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I was in a car accident. About a year ago. I’ve got some scars. They aren’t … they aren’t very pretty.”

“Are you all right?”

I close my eyes against the sudden burn of tears. Of course he would be the one to ask that, this man who acts so hard and callous but who has a secret, vulnerable center that he doesn’t let anyone see. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” Once again he brings my hand to his lips, presses kisses to it. “Do you really think your scars will make you less attractive to me?” He brings my hand to his stomach, runs it up and down those gorgeous washboard abs of his. “Feel those?” he asks, rubbing my hand on a particularly slick patch of flesh. “I have lots of scars. Yours don’t mean anything to me, except that I know you suffered for them and I’m sorry for that. Really sorry.”

God, is this guy for real? I thought this would be easy, thought we could just fuck and be done with it. But nothing about this situation, nothing about Z, is turning out quite as I expected it to. “What do you want from me?”

“What do I want? Just to see you, touch you. Make you feel good. I think the question is what do you want from me?”

I thought I knew what I wanted, but he’s so different from how I imagined him to be when I dumped that coffee on him the other day. And now that I’m here with him, everything seems upside down. I don’t know what I want from him anymore, only that I do want him.

Slowly tentatively, I pull my T-shirt over my head. It’s harder than I thought it would be, more nerve-racking, to sit here waiting for his judgment. The scarring isn’t terrible, but it’s not great, either. I had surgery on a collapsed lung and a ruptured spleen, numerous surgeries on my arm, which was shattered in the wreck, and a number of deep cuts from flying windshield glass. The doctors say it’s a miracle I have only a small scar on my face from the glass, but my torso is another story. All told, there’s something like fifteen scars, small and large.

Z looks me in the eye for long seconds, not even bothering to drop his gaze to my chest and stomach. I know what he’s doing, know he’s trying to show me that it really doesn’t matter to him. But it matters to me and I just want to get it over with.

Finally, finally, he looks. His expression doesn’t change at all, even when he runs his hand over the largest scar—a long, reddish purple one that runs from just under my breastbone to just below my navel. The doctors assure me that it will fade with time and turn the soft, opaque white of all scars. But for now it’s still vivid, still ugly, and I hate looking at it. Hate even more that I resent it when I at least have my life, which is more than Remi got.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says.

I nod, look away. “Yeah. Me too.” And right now I really am, even if I sometimes forget it.

Z curves a hand around my neck, pulls me down until my lips meet his. And he kisses me like he wants me. Like the scars don’t matter. Like I’m the most desirable woman in the world to him.

We kiss for what feels like hours, until I forget about everything but him and the way it feels to be held and touched and kissed by him.

When I’m panting and trembling and no longer care about anything but being with him, Z finally reaches for my bra, his skilled fingers unhooking it and peeling it off in the space from one breath to the next. I freak out for a second, slap my hands over my breasts. No one’s seen me like this since Remi, and suddenly it scares me. In making love to Z, I’m taking an irrevocable step away from my past, from who I used to be and whom I used to love. It’s harder than I thought it’d be.

Especially since Z seems totally inclined not to rush me or push me into anything. I can feel him pressed up against my sex—all hard and hot and even bigger than I remembered—and I know that he must want to get this show on the road, especially after how I left him last time. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to take my hands away. Doesn’t do anything but lie there and watch me out of eyes turned almost black with desire and something else I don’t recognize.

Slowly, so slowly it almost feels like a dream, I lower my hands. Rest them on his chest. And then I wait. Just wait.

“You sure you want to do this?” Z asks finally, his eyes locked on mine as his hands slide up my arms to cup my jaw.

I start to speak, to say yes, but my voice breaks, so I just nod instead, praying it’s enough for him.

It must be, because after long moments of silence, of stillness, his fingers slide into my hair. Then he’s pulling out the pins I use to keep it out of my face while I’m at work, tossing them onto the floor, one by one, until my curls tumble down around my shoulders and onto my back and breasts.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells me as his hands follow the same path as my hair, stroking, soothing, gentling me in a way I never would have expected from him.

“So are you,” I answer, gliding my hands up and down his long, lean torso. “Your tattoos are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve wanted to lick them pretty much from the first second I saw them.”

“Really? You could have fooled me. You seemed singularly unimpressed that first night at the coffee bar.”

“What was I supposed to do?” I ask, leaning down to press openmouthed kisses over the ink on his shoulder, down his pec. “Fall on the floor and beg you to do me right there?”

“It would have saved a lot of time,” he answers, arching beneath my attentions. “We could have been doing this days ago.”

“In front of the entire lodge.”

“I would have taken you into the changing room,” he jokes, right before sliding his thumbs over my nipples.

My breath hisses out of me and it’s my turn to arch, to press my breasts into this hands. “Wow. You’re a real class act,” I tease.

He smiles, that wicked, wild grin of his that turns my blood to lava and my willpower to mush. “I do what I can.”

“Oh, yeah?” I move against him, rocking my pelvis against his cock until we’re both covered in a light sheen of sweat. “Because I think you can do more.”

“You might be right.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders and another around my hips and then he’s flipping us yet again. Only this time I’m on the bed and he’s on the floor between my knees. “I should probably start by getting these jeans off you.”

He starts with the button, then peels the zipper down. As he does, he presses soft kisses to my stomach, following the line of the zipper until he runs into the top of my bikini underpants.

“Lift up,” he tells me, and when I do, he tugs my jeans off with one strong pull.

And then he’s sitting back on his heels and looking at me. Just looking at me. At first it doesn’t bother me, but then it goes on so long that I start to worry that something’s wrong. That the scars bother him more than he let on. That he doesn’t like what he sees.

I fumble for a blanket, try to cover myself, but he strips them all from the bed. Drops them on the floor. “What’d you do that for?” I ask, shivering a little. It’s been almost a year since I’ve done this and I’m anxious, nervous, horny … and determined to actually do it this time.

“You keep trying to hide yourself from me. I don’t like it.”

For some reason, it strikes me that he’s talking about a lot more than the blankets. But that doesn’t make sense, not when this is just a one-night thing. And not when Z himself is the master of disguises.

“Well, you should probably stop staring at me, then. It freaks me out.”

He grins, strews hot, wet, openmouthed kisses across my abdomen. “I like staring at you. You should probably get used to it—I’m planning on doing it a lot.”

I freeze at the words, which sound so much more than casual. Almost like he’s planning on doing this again. Which I might be okay with—if I can get through the next hour without humiliating myself, that is.

If Z notices my sudden stillness, he ignores it. Instead, he trails his tongue along the edge of my panties, licking across my mons slowly, slowly, slowly, until I feel like I might actually lose my mind.

My hands leave his chest and tangle in the cool silk of his hair as I hold him to me. I’m on fire, my body arching for his—aching for his—in a way I’ve never before experienced.

My sex life with Remi was good. I mean, he was a considerate lover who from the very first always took care of me as well as himself. And since he was the one who took my virginity, I never had anyone to compare him to. Which was fine. I was happy with him. Totally satisfied.

Being with Z isn’t like that, though. It isn’t about being happy or satisfied or any of those other words. No, being with Z is like being in the center of a lightning storm. Powerful, overwhelming, electric. And dangerous, so dangerous, without the proper precautions.

I want to take those precautions—thought I did take them, to be honest. But nothing could have prepared me for what it feels like to be loved by Z. To have his hands and mouth and body all over mine.

All. Over. Mine.

“Hey.” He pauses, lifts his head. “Where did you go?”

“I’m right here.”

Somehow, impossibly, his eyes grow even darker. “No, you’re not.”

I think he’s going to say something else, or maybe even leave. I clutch at his shoulders in desperation, knowing that if he leaves me—again—there’s no way I’ll be able to try this a third time.

But I’m wrong. This time Z isn’t going anywhere. Instead of getting up or suggesting we stop, he takes the opposite approach. He strips my panties down my legs in one swift move, then buries his face between my thighs.

I come off the bed at the first touch of his tongue against my clit, and seconds later my legs are over his shoulders and I’m in the throes of my first orgasm in eleven long, terrible months. I clutch at him, hold him to me as it goes on and on and on, thanks to Z and his oh-so-talented tongue.

When it’s finally over—and I once again have control over my brain and my limbs—I sit up with some vague idea of returning the favor. But Z just puts one big hand on my stomach and presses me back down.

“What—” I’m so dazed, so sated, that the words still aren’t forming right in my head.

He just laughs, a low, warm, delicious sound that sends new shivers up my back. And then his mouth is right back on me, his tongue tracing the folds of my sex and dipping inside once, twice, then again and again.

“Z!” I call his name as the maelstrom starts to build again, and he reaches up, twines his fingers with mine. He anchors me, gives me something to hold on to as he takes me right up to the edge of my control and then flings me over a second time.

And a third.

By now, my body isn’t even my own anymore. Z has laid claim to it and he’s determined to do what he promised. To make me feel good as he wrings every ounce of sensation—of pleasure—that he can from me.

“Please,” I whimper, my hands clutching at him as his tongue delves inside me for another long, leisurely lick. “No more. Please no more. I need—”

I cut myself off before I finish the sentence, before I scare us both off with an admission of just how much I need him.

But Z won’t let me hide. He strips away my last barriers—and every ounce of self-protection I have left—as surely as he stripped my clothes away. “What, baby?” he asks, his voice all sex-drugged black magic. “What do you need?”

I don’t want to answer him, don’t want to give him this last piece of myself when I’ve already given him so many. But when he brushes tender kisses across my shoulder and down my breast—kisses that tell me he wants so much more from me than just the good time we agreed to—I can’t stop myself from blurting out the truth.

“You,” I whisper, my body arching against his as he slips two fingers inside me and strokes my G-spot. “I need you, Z.”

“You’ve got me, Ophelia.” He murmurs the words against my breast, in between long, languid licks around my nipple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time, I wish that that was true. That we could stay right here, hiding from the outside world forever. Or at least until our bodies give out from the pleasure.

Except Z hasn’t taken any pleasure yet. He’s made me come three times and is giving every indication that he wants to go for a fourth, but I’m not having it. Not right now, when I am drowning in the need he created and my own determination to make him feel as good as he’s made me feel.

So I clutch at his hair, tugging at him until his face is level with mine and his hips are between my thighs. “Now,” I tell him. “Please. Right now.”

Except he’s pulling away, straightening up. Leaving me. “No!” I gasp, clutching at him. I’m not ready for this to end, not ready for him to leave me again. Not yet. Please, not yet.

“It’s okay,” he tells me, reaching for his jacket and unzipping a secret pocket on the inside. “I need a condom.”

Right. Because that’s who he is. The guy who carries condoms in his snowboarding jacket. And probably his pants and his wallet and his car, too. I need to remember that no matter how crazy he makes me or how much pleasure he gives me, I’m just one of a crowd.

Which is fine. This isn’t about love or forever or any of those other things. It’s about forgetting.

Then he’s back, kissing me, sliding into me. I kiss him back, try to lose myself in the sensations ripping through me. But it’s too late. Z might be a better lover than Remi—and I feel a little guilty even thinking it—but he doesn’t care about me.

Which was fine the other day, when I didn’t care about him, either. But now … now it’s not so easy. Because he isn’t just some guy looking to win a bet anymore. He’s the guy who’s helped me out nearly every time he’s seen me. The guy who somehow wormed his way under my defenses and made me like him way more than I should.

“Ophelia.”

Z’s voice brings me back. I open my eyes, find his face only inches from my own. His eyes are dark with desire, his jaw clenched against the need to come.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m good.”

He bends his head, nips at my bottom lip, hard.

“Hey!” I exclaim, bringing my hand up to soothe the hurt. “What was that for?”

He doesn’t answer, but then he doesn’t have to, because already I can feel the heat spreading through me. The pain grounds me, brings me right back to the precipice of desire I’d been balanced on only minutes ago.

Z’s watching me closely, and he must be satisfied because he starts moving again, thrusting into me oh so slowly. I can feel every inch of him stroking through me, and heat starts building inside me, spiraling my own desire up, up, up.

It scares me a little. How easily he can make me want him—and how much. Part of me wants to disconnect again, to take a step back out of sheer self-preservation. But Z’s having none of it. He chooses that moment to lower his mouth to my neck and bite me again.

“Z!” I gasp his name as fire sizzles along my nerve endings, and I clutch at his shoulders. He laves the little hurt with his tongue, even as he slips a hand between us and strokes my clit.

That’s all it takes. I come apart in his arms once more, and this time he comes with me.

Chapter 15

Z

This girl is going to be the death of me. It seems stupid to say that, to even think it considering what I’ve done in my life and what I’ll continue to do, but I swear, it’s the truth. What years of snowboarding haven’t managed, Ophelia is going to take care of with just a look. A smile. A touch.

Outside, a strong gust of wind blows, whistling through the trees even as it has the windows rattling in their frames. Ophelia is still asleep, but some part of her must feel it, because she burrows deeper under the covers, snuggling closer to me until her ass is pressed right up against my cock.

I want to slide inside her, to be the first thing she feels when she wakes up. The first thing she sees out of those gorgeous green eyes of hers, eyes that I now know turn a deep, verdant jungle green when she comes. But we made lo—

I freeze before the words are fully formed, force a do-over in my own head. We were together (because saying we fucked doesn’t fit any better than saying we made love) four times last night. She has to be sore and tired, and I need to be considerate.

But part of me doesn’t give a damn. It’s the same part of me that can’t stand when she slips away from me, when I’m holding her or loving her and she just disappears. Just goes somewhere else in her head. That part of me wants to fuck her again and again and again, until all she feels or smells or tastes is me. Until she understands that I’m not just going to let her slip away. Not now. Not yet.

Just the fact that I’m thinking this way freaks me out. I don’t date. I don’t pine after a girl. I don’t do anything but fuck—and even that is more about letting the pressure out, feeling something even if it’s just for a minute, than it has ever been about the person I’m with. Except last night wasn’t about trying to feel—at least for me. Last night, and this morning, I feel much more than I’ve ever wanted to.

Determined to gain a little distance—or at least a little perspective—I roll away from her, start to climb out of bed. But she follows me, scooting across the bed in her sleep in an effort to keep her body pressed to mine.

It makes me smile, makes me want to wrap myself around her and stay with her until she wakes up. But as she shifts, I catch sight of the livid bruises around her arms. Bruises that Harvey put there. Bruises that he will pay for.

With that thought in mind, I brush a kiss over Ophelia’s hair and climb out of bed. I take a quick shower. Then, wearing nothing but my boxers and the smile I can’t seem to wipe off my face, I follow the signs to the laundry room on the first floor to retrieve my clothes. I really hope nobody took them, because a text about losing my clothes is so not what I want to send to Ash this morning. Already he’s pissed that I wouldn’t upload the footage from the camera and send it to him last night so he could watch it. If I press my luck, he’ll enlist Luc to find a way to get even—probably one that involves cayenne pepper in my underwear. Luc’s practical jokes are legendary.

My clothes are there, though someone’s taken them out of the dryer and heaped them on the side counter. I slip into them quickly, cursing a little at how cold everything is. It’s never bothered me before, but then I’ve never spent a night snuggled up against Ophelia before, either. In fact, unless I’m totally wasted and just pass out like I did with Stacy, I never spend the night with a girl at all. The fact that I did last night shakes me up more than I want to admit to anyone, especially myself.

I make my way back to Ophelia’s room, hoping she’ll be up so I can talk her into breakfast and a ride home. But she’s still sacked out, and when I glance at her alarm, I realize it’s not set to go off for a couple of hours. Either it’s her day off or she’s working late today.

Either way, there’s some stuff I want to take care of, and since there’s no way I’m going back to bed, I might as well do it now. I can’t stand what almost happened to her last night, hate the fact that if I hadn’t been hiking in—due to my own stupidity—then I wouldn’t have been there and she would have had to fend Harvey off on her own. I hate even more the fact that she might not have been able to fend him off. When I caught up to them, she was almost holding her own, but he’s a big guy. Who knows what could have happened.

Just the thought of Ophelia being raped and/or beaten has rage rocketing through me, and for a minute I can almost feel the bastard’s neck beneath my hands. Men who hurt women that way don’t deserve to live.

Shaking it off, or at least trying to, I add another item to my mental to-do list. Then I bend over, kiss Ophelia’s cheek, and murmur, “I’ll be back in a little.”

She moans, pushes at my face, and I can’t help grinning. Looks like my girl is definitely not a morning person. It’s kind of cute that she’s this grumpy in the morning. Then again, it shouldn’t really surprise me, not when she’s got grumpy cornered all the other times of the day, too.

Pulling my phone out, I text Ash and Luc a quick request before throwing on my jacket and heading out on the same path Ophelia was on yesterday, only in the opposite direction. If I hurry, I can be back before she wakes up.

I pretty much jog the whole way to the resort—it’s a great morning for it. Crisp and clear with air so pure it almost hurts to breathe. Luc and Ash still beat me there, though. I find them in the main parking lot, leaning against my Range Rover and shooting the shit about some of the other guys on the snowboarding circuit.

“Well, you look like you’re in one piece,” Luc says, giving me a critical once-over once he catches sight of me.

“I told you yesterday that I was fine.”

“Yeah, well, we weren’t particularly inclined to believe you—especially when you wouldn’t let us come over last night.”

“You’re turning into a little old grandma, Luc. All this worrying. You should probably get out more. It’ll take care of that.”

He flips me off, but there’s no heat in it. “Yeah, well, you should probably go get laid. It might keep you from jumping off the side of a fucking mountain.”

At his words, I can’t help but think about Ophelia and what we spent most of the night doing. Not that I’m about to tell Luc and Ash about it. Some things are nobody else’s business.

“Where’re my keys?” I ask, holding out my hand.

“Where’s my camera?” Ash counters, holding out his hand as well.

“Right here.” I pull it out of the bag I snagged from Ophelia’s place.

“How’s the footage?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t looked at it yet.”

They goggle at me like I’m crazy. “Are you kidding me? How could you not watch it?” Ash demands. “Didn’t you want to see what you did?”

“Dude, I lived it. What’s going over it again gonna do for me?”

Luc shakes his head at me. “You’re hopeless. You know that?”

“I always have been.”

Ash shoots me a look, but he’s too busy bringing up the footage to say anything. Of course, I’d totally forgotten that it was recording during Cam’s and my little talk at the top of the mountain, so—lucky me—I get to endure hearing to it a second time. While my best friends watch and listen, too.

“Well, fuck,” Ash says, pausing it right before I go over. “I take back all the shit I said. If she was yapping at me like that, I’d probably go off the side of a mountain, too.”

All three of us laugh, and then Ash hits play and we get to watch my trip down that mountain. It always feels a little surreal to me to watch footage from a chest cam—at least of myself and something I’ve done—but Ash and Luc don’t seem to have any problem with it.

They hoot and holler a little bit as the video rolls, and Luc curses when I hit that monster drop, but other than that nobody says anything until we get to the end of the footage. And even then, Ash turns around and starts scrolling back so we can watch it all over again.

“Dude, how big was that drop?” Luc demands. “It went on for fucking ever.”

“It felt that way. When I was doing it, I thought it was probably two hundred feet, but once I was down and looking back up, it seemed more like two hundred and fifty feet or so.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s the only time on the whole run that I thought I might actually die. It felt like the ground was so far away.”

“It was so far away.” Ash shakes his head in awe. “Man, that is fucking Art of Flight shit,” he tells me, referencing the kick-ass snowboarding documentary that showed boarders doing a whole host of things that didn’t look like they were humanly possible.

“That’s right,” I agree. “Travis Rice ain’t got nothing on me.” Then I laugh, because the man’s a genius while I’m just a fuck-up. No doubt a lucky fuck-up yesterday, but still a fuck-up.

“No way, man. This is epic. Seriously epic. Do you know the longest drop ever landed is—”

“One hundred and seven meters. Three hundred and twenty-one feet,” Luc and I finish for him in stereo. Ash is a living, breathing snowboarding Wikipedia, and we’ve heard it all a million times before.

“Exactly. I bet you were close to that.”

“Nah.”

“I don’t know, man.” He brings the footage back to my drop, counts the seconds. “If you were dropping at a rate of—”

“Okay, okay, enough snowboarding geek stuff,” I tell him. I don’t know how far I dropped and I don’t care. For me it’s never been about that kind of stuff.

“All right, fine.” He continues scrolling until he gets to one of my tricks. “Is that really a triple—”

“Yeah.”

“And a 1440—”

“Yep.”

“Where have you been hiding this stuff?” Luc demands. “We board with you every day, and while you do some extreme shit, I have never seen you do a couple of those tricks before.”

I shrug. “We don’t always practice together.”

“No, of course not. Only like every day.”

“He did the 1440 the other day, while you and Cam were still sleeping,” Ash says. “It was totally front.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Luc shakes his head again. “Man, you are going to redefine the X Games this year. No one is going to be able to touch you.”

“Forget the X Games. This is Olympic medal shit,” Ash tells him.

“Nah, man. The Olympics are your game. It’s all you this year. Well, you and that kid from Colorado,” I tell him.

“Yeah, right. Neither Luc nor I can do an inverted 1440.”

“Hell, most days it’s all I can do to hit 1080,” Luc agrees. “This is awesome, Z.”

“People are going to go apeshit for this footage,” Ash says. “I can’t wait to get it up.”

“About that …”

He already knows what I’m going to say. “Oh, no. No way. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t want me to use it.”

“I was just thinking, maybe—”

“No! No! You’re too frickin’ modest all the time. You never want anyone to see what you can do, and usually I go along with it, but this is amazing. And it’s almost Olympic trials time. You totally need to get this out there.”

“I already told you, I’m not interested in the Olympics—”

“Yeah, well, we are,” Luc interjects. “This footage is going to get us a shitload of hits and attention on YouTube and the website. And once they’re there, maybe they’ll poke around for a while, see what else we’ve got. This is how you get the Olympic selection committee’s attention.”

“You get their attention by kicking ass at the trials. The Dew championship—”

“Bull. You know as well as I do that it’s as much about swagger as it is about your actual performance during those couple of weeks.”

“You don’t count. You’d agree with anything if it meant getting that footage on the website.”

“While that is true, I still stand by what Luc says. What you did on this video is too awesome to ignore. It’s going up.”

I start to argue with him some more, but I can tell by the look on his face that I’ll have to pry the camera from his cold, dead hand if I have any chance of keeping my ride off the Internet. And fuck it, in the grand scheme of things, what’s the big deal? I’ve got better stuff to do this morning than to stand around here wasting time with these two.

“Fine, whatever. Just don’t make a big deal of it, okay?”

“We’re not the ones who are going to be making a big deal,” Luc says.

I pull a face at him, then say, “I’ve got to go. Thanks for bringing my car up.”

“The footage more than makes up for it.” Ash tucks the camera in his truck, which is parked right next to my Range Rover. “Are you hitting the half-pipe with us?”

“Later. I’ve got some stuff to do.”

“Stuff that has to do with your busted-up knuckles?” Ash asks.

I glance down at my hands. Even though they still hurt a little, I’d pretty much forgotten about them. Otherwise I would have kept my gloves on.

“Maybe.”

“You need backup?”

I think of Ophelia tucked up in her bed. “Uh, no. I’ve got it.”

“I bet,” Luc says, shooting me a knowing look. “Oh, and speaking of bets, you better forget about snow bunnies and focus on getting with Ophelia or I’m going to be riding your Burton Landlord in the competition this weekend.”

Hell, I’d forgotten about the stupid bet. Now’s the perfect time to tell them I won, but I can’t get the words out. I don’t know what’s going on with Ophelia or me, or what’s going to happen from here. But what happened last night wasn’t about a bet, and if that means having to give up my favorite board, then I’m okay with it. Not happy, obviously, but okay. I never thought I’d say this about any girl, but Ophelia’s more important.

* * *

I finally ditch my friends a few minutes later. Which is perfect timing, because the resort’s restaurants just opened and I’ve got one more thing I have to do. I lock my sights onto the main breakfast place, then walk straight through the dining room to the door that leads to the main kitchen that serves the three different restaurants up here at the top of the mountain.

“Hey, Z, you’re not allowed to be back here.”

I pause for a moment as a brunette with big eyes and bigger boobs grabs onto my arm. I recognize her as a girl I spent a few hours with a couple of months back, but I’ll be damned if I can recall her name. Shit. Just more proof that I’m as big a dick as Luc and Cam say I am.

“I’m not staying,” I tell her with a quick smile. “I just need to talk to someone for a second.”

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t be trolling the kitchen for your next date, dude. If you disrupt service, there’ll be hell to pay. We’re just getting started on the breakfast rush.”

She grabs my arm, starts to propel me back toward the door that leads into the dining room, but I’m not ready to go yet. Not even close. Leaning down so that my lips are only a few centimeters from her ear, I say, “I won’t disrupt anything. I promise.”

“Yeah, like I believe that,” she says with a shiver. But she lets me go without complaint.

I drop a quick kiss on her cheek, then take the opportunity to dodge between two of the long stainless-steel tables that run down the center of the kitchen before she changes her mind. The last thing I need is for her to cause a fuss and get me kicked out—at least not before I do what I came here for.

Since it feeds three busy restaurants, the kitchen is huge and hectic, with waitstaff, busboys, chefs, and management darting through and around every square inch of open space. Still, it doesn’t take me long to find who I’m looking for in his little alcove off to the side of the main action. He’s taller and bigger than most of the people in the kitchen, and though his back is to me, I’d recognize him anywhere. Of course, the fact that he’s moving like he’s a ninety-year-old arthritic helps me identify him.

Maybe I should feel guilty about all the pain I caused, but to be honest, all I feel is the icy burn of regret. I obviously didn’t do enough damage or the guy wouldn’t be able to stand, let alone load a dishwasher.

I walk up behind him, clap a hand onto his shoulder, and start to squeeze. “Hey, Harvey. How you doing?” Though the words are perfectly polite, the tone I say them in isn’t. He jolts, tries to take off. But there’s nowhere for him to go. With the counter behind him and me in front of him, he’s trapped. Vulnerable. Exposed—exactly as Ophelia was when he decided to get rough with her.

“Leave me alone, Z. I’m working.” His voice is loud, panicked.

“I can see that.” I lean closer, keeping my voice low and calm in direct contrast to his. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to take up much of your time.”

“If you hit me again, I’m calling the police.” He reaches for a pan, holds it out in front of him like a weapon.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” I ask with a sneer. “You’re the one who tried to rape a girl yesterday. All I did was put a stop to it.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt her—”

“News flash, dickwad. You did hurt her.” I grab his shirt. Yank him forward so that we’re eye to eye, nose to nose. “You put bruises on her that are going to take weeks to fade. I’m not okay with that.”

“How was I supposed to know?” he whines. “She seemed interested. She was trying to get—”

“What she was trying to do was get away from you. I was four or five hundred yards away and even I could see that.”

“That’s not true—”

“Oh, it is.” I stomp the heel of my boot down on his tennis-shoe-clad foot even as I body check him, slamming him into the metal countertop at his back. “And you want to know what else is true?”

“No.” He watches me warily.

“Well, that sucks for you, since I’m going to tell you anyway.” I glance behind me, just to make sure no one’s paying attention. They aren’t. We’re in our own little piece of the kitchen over here, blocked from view by a half wall and a couple of tall shelves filled with kitchen equipment. Which means that as long as I’m quiet, I can do whatever the hell I want to this piece of shit and no one will be the wiser.

The thought is tempting—too tempting—and my fingers tighten on his collar. His face starts to turn red as he finally gets it. I could strangle him, right here in his little dishwashing area, and no one would give a shit. At least not until the dishes started piling up.

“I’m going to say this one time and you’re going to listen really well. Understand?”

He nods frantically.

“Good.” I loosen my grip a little—a very little—before continuing. “Ophelia’s a friend of mine. A good friend of mine. Now, if you know anything about me at all, you know that I don’t like people messing with my friends. So this is what you’re going to do.”

I tighten my grip again, pull him in closer. His eyes are wide, his pupils dilated with the same fear that’s making sweaty patches pop up all over his shirt, but he doesn’t even try to fight me despite the fact that he outweighs me by a good fifty pounds. Instead, he just clutches at his shirt, tries to rip it from my hands as he whimpers like the little bitch he is.

“You’re going to stay away from Ophelia. You’re not going to talk to her. You’re not going to look at her. You’re not going to think about her. You’re not even going to think about thinking about her. ’Cuz if you do, if you so much as say her name, I’m going to come back. And I’m going to end you. Do you get me?”

He nods, and I loosen up on his collar a little more, let him take his first real breath since I grabbed him.

He gasps, drags in huge gulps of air. He’s shaking so bad that he drops the pot he grabbed for self-defense. It falls to the mat beneath him with a thud.

“Now, I want to hear you say it. Acknowledge that you understand what I’m telling you.”

“I get it, Z. Jesus, I get it. I didn’t know she was yours.”

Rage, white-hot and ugly, rips through me all over again. “It shouldn’t matter if she’s mine or not, fucktard. You don’t touch women who don’t want to be touched. They deserve better than that. Ophelia sure as hell deserves better than to be raped by some loser who can’t get it up if he’s not hurting her. Understand?”

He doesn’t answer.

I tighten the shirt again. “I’m going to need an answer now, Harvey, or I’m going to drag your ass out back and beat you till you give me the one I want. Do. You. Understand?”

“I got it,” he finally says. He’s bitter, resentful, but smart enough to know I’m not joking.

I let him go, but at the same time I give him a little shove that sends him careening against the sink behind him. Water sloshes onto the counters, drips onto the cabinets, the floors, his apron. There’s a big wet spot over his pelvis now, one that makes it look like he wet himself.

Harvey grabs the counter to stop himself from actually falling into the sink, just as a couple of busboys turn the corner with huge trays of dishes. “Hey,” one of them says when they catch sight of the look on Harvey’s face. “Everything okay back here?”

“I don’t know.” I look at him questioningly. “Everything okay, Harvey?”

He glares at me, and for a second I think I’m going to have to deliver a more forceful warning. But finally he nods, tugging at his collar all the while. I can see the red marks the tight fabric left there, know that they’ll be turning to bruises before much longer. He’ll have a nice black-and-blue circle around his neck, kind of like the ring of bruises Ophelia has around her upper arms.

Just the reminder has me wanting to pound him some more. This asshole really did get off way too easy.

“Everything’s fine,” he says in a raspy voice. “Z was just checking on me after my fall.” He gestures to the bruises on his face and arms. So that’s what he told people went down. Better than telling them he attacked the new girl, I guess.

Fucking coward.

I shoot an insolent smile at the busboys, who still seem uneasy with my presence. Then I give Harvey a two-fingered wave that’s as much threat as it is promise. “I’ll see you around, Harvey.”

“No, you won’t,” he says snidely, a lot braver now that he’s got backup. “You’ll be too busy treating women right—fucking them, using them, and then dropping them—to have time for me. Or Ophelia. Isn’t that how it works with you, Z?”

For long seconds all I can think about is launching myself at him and wiping that smug look off his face once and for all. A few missing teeth ought to do the trick. But we’ve started attracting a crowd—three waitresses and a chef’s assistant have joined the busboys—and I don’t want to give Harvey the satisfaction of watching my ass get hauled to jail if I start a fight in the lodge’s kitchen. Even if it would totally be worth it.

Besides, there’s more than one way to make my point. And, more important, to protect Ophelia.

I move forward, get in his face one more time. None of the chickenshit busboys try to stop me—big surprise—and I’m close enough to see it register on Harvey.

Close enough that I can smell the panic on him.

More than close enough that he knows I’m not going to walk away from this. From Ophelia and what he tried to do to her.

“Hurt her again—touch her again—and you’ll find out exactly how it works. Because the next time you go near her, I’ll chop your dick off and feed it to you. Then there won’t be a woman alive who has to worry about you trying to rape her ever again.”

I make sure the last sentence is loud enough to carry through the kitchen. Then, as the whispers start up all around us, I turn and walk away.

Mission. Fucking. Accomplished.

Chapter 16

Ophelia

I wake up to the sound of my alarm blaring. I wait for a second, cuddled deep into the blankets, hoping Z will turn it off.

No such luck.

Finally I reach for it, slap it off, then sit up and push the heavy fall of my hair back from my face. That’s when I get the first real glimpse of my room and it hits me: Z isn’t here. He didn’t just crawl out of bed before me. He actually left before I woke up.

The jerk.

Even as the thought occurs to me, I push it away. After all, I knew what I was getting into when I slept with him. Neither of us pretended it was anything but what it was. No reason to blame him now just because he did exactly what I knew he would. It isn’t like I wasn’t warned.

Except … except last night felt like something more to me. It sounds stupid, especially considering I’m lying here alone and Z went God only knows where without even saying good-bye—but it’s still true. Which proves what an idiot I am.

I settle back in bed, think about going back to sleep—it is my day off, after all—but I’m awake now, my mind whirling in circles as it tries to assimilate this new reality.

I slept with someone.

I slept with someone who wasn’t Remi.

I slept with someone. No, not someone.

I slept with Z.

It’s strange to be thinking this, stranger still for it to be true. Up until now, Remi—my high school boyfriend and the love of my life—was the only guy I’d ever been with. For the most part, I liked it like that. It made it easier for me to point at our relationship and know that it was right and good and pure, despite what people have said since the accident. It also made it easier to accept that those years with Remi were all I was ever going to have.

Now that acceptance is gone and I don’t have a clue what anything means.

Not anymore.

The old familiar sorrow weighs me down, the pain I’m so familiar with that it feels like an extension of my own body. An extra limb I carry around all the time. Yet it’s different, too. More regret, less devastation. A softening of all those jumbled feelings inside me.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe time—and great sex—really do heal all wounds.

Just the thought, sarcastic though it was, has guilt crashing through me. I lock it away, shove it down deep, just like I do with everything I don’t want to deal with. Then I climb out of bed and head for the shower. No use sitting around here all day, moping, when I don’t have to work. Maybe I’ll take the bus into town and do some sightseeing. Catch a movie. There’s got to be something to do in this town that doesn’t involve snow.

On my way to the bathroom, I plug my phone into my stereo and hit some random playlist, and by the time the chorus for Imagine Dragons’ “Radioactive” comes on, I’m feeling pretty good. After all, there’s no reason to be upset. I wanted to sleep with Z to feel something and to get rid of the whole pressure that came with Remi being the only guy I’d ever slept with. I did that, and had a really good time, too. I have nothing to complain about.

And if I repeat those words often enough, I might actually believe them.

Refusing to go there again, I focus on exfoliating my skin. Shaving my currently nonexistent leg hair. Conditioning the hell out of my curls. Anything and everything but what it felt like to be held and kissed and loved by Z.

My eyes are closed, my head bent back under the water to rinse the last of the conditioner from my hair, when I hear the shower curtain being pulled back. I scream loud and long even as I reach for the only weapon I have—a bottle of conditioner—and prepare to brain the intruder with it.

“Whoa! Hey!” Z throws his hands up in front of him to protect himself from my imminent attack. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Z?” The conditioner falls from my hand into the tub with a thump. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought you breakfast. I thought we could eat together.”

“Oh. Right. Breakfast.” I stare at him for long seconds, trying to assimilate this very unexpected development. “You went out to get breakfast.”

He looks confused for a second, but then the smile fades from his face. “You thought I left.”

“You did leave.” I state the obvious, even as I turn the water off and reach for the towel I draped over the curtain rod.

“I told you I’d be back in a little while.”

He steps back into my room as I climb out of the tub. The bathroom’s about the size of a postage stamp and the only way for two of us to be in it at the same time—if one of us isn’t in the shower—requires us to be a lot closer than we currently are.

“I must have been out of it. I don’t remember you saying anything.”

He nods, his face blank even as his eyes search mine. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” The answer comes out fast, before I even have a chance to think about it. It’s a little bit embarrassing how fast, considering all that crap I was just telling myself in the shower. “I mean, breakfast sounds good. I’m hungry.”

Z’s smile is back and for the first time I realize it’s not the smile I’m used to. Not the little half smirk, half grin he gives the world. No, this smile lights up his face. It creases his cheeks and the skin around his eyes. It’s a real smile, I realize with a mixture of discomfort and delight. For the first time since I met him—other than in bed last night—I think I’m getting to see the real Z. The one only Luc and Ash and Cam ever get to see.

“Good. You get dressed and I’ll make coffee.” He drops a quick kiss on my forehead before turning away.

I watch him walk away, my eyes glued to his very fine ass even as I wonder who actually looks that good in a pair of thick snowboarding pants. The answer is no one. No one, that is, except Z Michaels.

Though I dragged out my shower forever, I race through getting ready. I don’t know how long Z is planning on staying—probably not long—and I don’t want to miss a minute of the time I can spend with him. I know it’s a bad idea, know I’ll be disappointed if I put any hope at all into this thing between Z and me.

Which is stupid, I tell myself as I scramble into a pair of leggings and a fluffy green oversized sweater. It’s not like I want anything from him except breakfast. It’s just that it might be kind of nice to be his friend. I don’t have any, and he doesn’t have many.…

I don’t know. It’s just that there seems to be a lot more to him than what he lets people see. I want to know what’s there.

By the time I get a little bit of makeup on and my hair dried with a diffuser—which takes forever—Z has breakfast laid out on my tiny table. Chocolate croissants; breakfast sandwiches with egg, cheese, and bacon; fresh winter fruit salad.

“That’s a lot of food,” I tell him, eyes wide.

“I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a few different things. Plus, I eat a lot, so …” He ends with a shrug.

“Right.” Sudden comprehension dawns. “The snowboarding thing.”

“Yeah. The snowboarding thing.”

I grab one of the plates he put on the table, heap it high with fruit and a big chocolate croissant, then grab a fork and my coffee before crossing to the bed.

“You want to eat there?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t you know? There’s nothing better than breakfast in bed.”

“Nothing? Damn. Obviously I did something wrong last night.”

“Fishing for compliments is so unattractive,” I tell him with a grin. “Especially when you know just how right you did everything last night.”

“Oh, yeah?” He grabs a plate, shovels an astonishing amount of food onto it. “You think I did everything right?”

“I did come like nine times.” I watch as he settles next to me on the bed. “And then you brought me chocolate for breakfast. I’m not sure what more of a job performance review you want.”

“The chocolate’s the key, huh?”

“I’m not going to lie. It helps.”

“I’ll remember that.” He leans forward, presses soft kisses across my jaw and down my throat. “And for the record, you came ten times.”

That startles a laugh out of me. “You kept track? Wow, Z, you’re a real romantic.”

He arches a brow at me. “In some circles, ten orgasms could be considered romantic.”

“In some circles, one orgasm could be considered romantic.”

“Well, then I’m ahead of the game.”

“Which is exactly how you like it.”

“Damn straight,” he says with a nod. “But if you want, we could go for eleven, just to make sure.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “How come I think eleven is actually code for twenty?”

“Because you’re a smart girl.” He reaches over and rubs his thumb firmly over my nipple. Heat streaks through me, and I arch into his touch, despite myself. “And a sexy one.”

My breath catches in my throat as he puts our plates on the floor before sliding his hand over my stomach and into my leggings. Still, I manage to ask, “You think I’m sexy?”

“Now who’s fishing for compliments?” he whispers as he strokes gentle circles around my clit.

The boy knows what he’s doing—God, does he know what he’s doing—and it only takes a minute or two before I’m trembling over the edge of orgasm number eleven.

“And for the record,” he whispers against my lips in between long, drugging kisses, “I think you’re very sexy. I also think you did everything right last night, too.”

I roll my eyes, nip at his lower lip. “Well, obviously.”

He laughs. “That’s some ego you’ve got going on there.”

“Not really,” I say as I shift to kneel between his knees. “After all, you’re still here, aren’t you? I figure that’s all the performance review I need.”

“Yeah.” He turns serious fast. “I’m still here.”

“In case I didn’t say it earlier, I’m really glad you are.” I tug his pants down below his knees. “And since you are …” I deliver a long, lingering lick to his very aroused cock, then suck it deep into my mouth.

He doesn’t say anything else for a while, but then again, neither do I.

* * *

“I’m not doing it.”

“Come on, Ophelia. Just try.”

“I don’t need to try.” I cross my arms over my chest and look anywhere but at Z. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Yes, it is.”

I make a frustrated sound deep in my throat. “Just because we had sex a few times doesn’t mean you have the right to tell me what to do.”

“No,” he agrees. “But the fact that I beat the hell out of an asshole who was trying to rape you in the woods yesterday does. It’s not safe for you to keep doing that walk between the lodge and your room. Especially not at night.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“That’s part of the problem, isn’t it?” He leans back against the car, shoves his hands in his pockets even as he crosses his long legs in front of him. “You don’t know how to ask for help.”

“I ask when I need it.”

“You need it now.” He pulls his right hand from his pocket, and clutched in his fingers is the key to his Range Rover. He presses it into my hand. “Get in the driver’s seat, Ophelia.”

“No.”

“It looks like we’re going to be here awhile, then.”

“No, you’re going to be here awhile. I’m walking to the bus. I want to go shopping.” I talk big, but I don’t move. It’s like I’m frozen in place, the key he gave me burning my palm as surely as if he’d handed me a live flame.

“I told you I’d take you shopping. But I want to give you a driving lesson first.”

“I know how to drive. In fact, I’m probably a better driver than you are.” Remi spent months, years, making sure I could handle a car in any eventuality. It was his big condition before he ever let me behind the wheel to drag-race.

“Of course you know how to drive. But you’re from New Orleans. When’s the last time you drove on ice or snow?” When I don’t answer, he continues. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. But you can’t hide from it forever. You live in one of the biggest snow towns in the freakin’ country. You need to know how to deal with the weather.”

“I am dealing with it.”

“No, you’re running away from it. But that stops now.”

Our eyes lock and I glare at him, pissed that he sees through my smokescreen and even more pissed that he’s forcing the issue. Who knew that Z, who spends most of his life coasting from one party to the next, could dig his heels in so adamantly? But he has, and I have a feeling we’ll be here all day if I don’t give in to him.

I’m almost willing to do it, to just stand here and wait for hell to freeze over or Z to give up. But at the same time, there’s a part of me that knows he’s right. That I can’t spend my whole life avoiding driving. The snow and ice have given me an excuse so far, but at some point … at some point I’m just going to have to do it.

That point might as well be now, especially since Z is currently doing his impression of the immovable-object-meets-unstoppable-force paradox. Either way, I’m smart enough to know I’m screwed.

“Fine,” I tell him, stomping around the car to the driver’s side. “I’ll do it.” But if he starts to crow about getting me do to what he wants or if he acts arrogant in any other way, I am so out of here.

However, Z is surprisingly low-key when he slides into the passenger side, almost as if he knows how ready to bolt I am. And maybe he does. He figured out about the driving thing when no one else has yet, not even my mom or friends back home. Which means he’s looking a lot closer than I thought he was, seeing so much more of me than I thought I was revealing.

“Driving on snow is not that much different from driving in rain,” he tells me after we’ve both put our seat belts on. “In rain you worry about hydroplaning. In snow you worry about the same thing, especially since there actually is that layer of water between the car and the road. So, to compensate for it, you have to learn to use the car’s own forward momentum instead of pressing on the gas all the time.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused already.

“Put the car in second instead of drive,” he tells me. He parked the Range Rover near the front curb earlier so that I wouldn’t have to worry about backing out of a spot yet. “And just let it creep forward. Don’t touch the gas or the brake; just let the car move forward on its own.”

I do as he says and we start moving at about one mile an hour. After a minute, I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “We aren’t going to get very far at this speed.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Bored already?”

“No. Just …” Impatient. Impatient to get started, impatient to finish. Impatient to get my life back. Or at least this small corner of it.

“I get it,” he tells me, dropping a hand on my knee, and I think maybe he does. God knows he seems to understand everything else. Strange, when a few days ago I would have said he didn’t understand anything.

As we get toward the end of the parking lot, he continues, “Now, you can ease it into third gear. But don’t turn out into the street yet. I want you to drive a couple of circles in here before we go out onto the road.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes at him. “You sound like Remi during my very first driving lesson.”

“Remi?” he asks. “Is that your brother?”

I swallow, annoyed at myself for slipping up. I never talk about Remi. Never. But Z doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know anything about me other than what he’s seen here in Park City. And while there’s something really appealing about that fact, there’s also something not quite fair about it, too. Not when there are so many sources around where I pick up stuff about his life.

“He was my boyfriend. We started dating when I was fifteen, so he’s the one who taught me how to drive.”

“He taught you? So he was older than you?”

“By a couple of years, yeah.”

He nods, and though he doesn’t say anything, I know that the parallels between him and Remi aren’t lost on Z. And he doesn’t know the half of it.

But I do, and still I’m here, in this car with him.

Still I slept with him.

I told myself it wouldn’t matter. That I was doing it because I wanted to get over the pain that came with Remi being my one and only. But being here, now, with Z … trusting him to give me this driving lesson … laughing with him in my room a little while ago … It makes me think that there’s more here than I want to admit, even to myself. Especially to myself.

The thought boggles my mind, especially considering who Z is. What he does. In its own way, snowboarding is as dangerous as drag racing, and Z isn’t exactly known for his caution on the slopes or in the half-pipe. I’ve never seen him board, so I don’t know, but the stories I’ve heard around the resort make it sound like he takes more risks than he has to. The payout’s bigger, but so is the chance of something going wrong.

I can’t help wondering if there’s something pathologically wrong with me that the only two guys I’ve ever been interested in have been like that. Remi always felt like he had something to prove, and very often went to crazy lengths to do so. And though I don’t know him nearly as well, yet, it seems to me like Z is exactly the same.

Just the thought has my hands shaking on the steering wheel.

“You cold, baby?” Z reaches over and turns the heat on high.

Because I am, suddenly, I smile at him. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He smiles back, and it’s that real smile of his again. The one that all but stops my heart in my chest.

“What happened to Remi?” he asks as we complete my first full circle of the parking lot—which was both easier and harder than I thought it would be. I can tell by his voice that he knows, or thinks he does, but he needs to ask anyway.

I don’t look at him when I answer. “He died. In the same accident that …” I gesture to my stomach.

“I’m sorry, Ophelia.” I can hear it in his voice, the fact that he’s sorry for more than just Remi’s death. He’s sorry for pushing me into this driving lesson. “I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault. I—”

I’m not sure what I was going to say there, but whatever it was, it ends up going unsaid. Because as we get to the end of the parking lot and I start to make a left turn, the car starts to skid, the back end fishtailing wildly.

“Turn the wheel to the right,” Z tells me in a tight, authoritative voice. “A little more, a little more … that’s it.”

I hit the sweet spot, straighten us back up, and pretend my heart isn’t beating about a hundred miles a minute. There was no real danger—we were going so slowly and there were no cars near us to bump into—but still, it was stupidly terrifying to me. Just like in Z’s car last night, all I could think about were those moments before Remi and I crashed. When everything was fun and hysterical and amazing—

“Ophelia!” Z barks my name, and it snaps me out of the stupor, has me turning to him instinctively.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

“I know you are,” he answers. “I just wanted to make sure you knew it, too.”

It’s such a Z answer, and yet such a perfect one that I can’t help responding to it. I slow the car to a stop and lean over, pressing my mouth to his.

Sparks shoot through me as Z returns my kiss, his warm hand coming up to cradle my face as he nips at my upper lip. But just when I’m thinking about tanking the whole lesson in favor of heading back to my room, he pulls away.

“Let’s try that again,” he tells me. “Except when you get to the next corner, I want you to make sure your foot is off the gas and that you turn a little to the inside. That way if you start to skid, you have more room to control yourself before worrying about going off the edge of the mountain or something.”

“We’re nowhere near the edge of the mountain,” I answer, pouting a little because I really want to be doing something else right now.

“You know what I mean.”

And the thing is, I do. Though I want to be anywhere else but in this SUV right now, there’s a part of me that loves Z’s determination to make sure I can drive in the snow. More, that I’m no longer afraid of something so stupidly important. And because I do, I put everything else away and concentrate on doing exactly what he tells me to.

We end up doing three more turns around the parking lot before Z decides it’s safe to take me out onto the road that runs up to the lodge. It’s a back road, not one of the main ones, but still I’m nervous as I pull out onto it.

Z is patient with me the whole time, explaining when to touch the gas and how hard, how to brake on snow, how to turn. He even covers what to do if I start to slide at a higher speed, and gives me a demonstration—with him behind the wheel, of course. He’s too protective for anything else.

We end up spending the whole day together. The driving lesson takes a couple of hours, then we head into town—with me driving all the way down the mountain—for lunch and a movie, which turns into window shopping and dinner and a movie and finally dessert at that little place we went to a few days ago. This time I eat my ice cream cone like a normal person—no reason to torment him, not when he already knows what it’s like to have my mouth on him.

We spend so much time sitting there talking—about everything and nothing—that we don’t get back to my place until late. He drives us up the mountain since it’s so dark, of course, but for the first time I feel like I might not drive the car off a cliff.

Z gave me that reassurance, and it’s not something I’ll easily forget. Truth be told, I won’t forget anything about the last twenty-four hours. Maybe that explains why, when we get to my door, I invite him in—despite the fact that this thing between us is supposed to be casual.

What it doesn’t explain, though, is why he says yes.

Chapter 17

Z

“Dude!” Ash meets me as I step off the magic carpet, his phone in his hand and a look of absolute glee on his face. “It’s gone viral, man. Over a million hits in less than twenty-four hours. Everyone is talking about you!”

“What’s gone viral?” To be honest, I’m not paying much attention to what he’s saying.

Instead, I’m thinking about last night with Ophelia and wondering how much longer until she gets off work. It’s crazy. Normally when I’m on my board, time flies. Hard for it to be any different when the adrenaline’s pumping and I’m shredding hard.

But today every second has dragged. All I’ve been able to think about is her and what it was like to be with her. To hold her and kiss her, to be inside her. I’ve been with a lot of girls since I was thirteen, more than I could ever begin to count. It’s not something I’m proud of, but not something I’ve ever been embarrassed about, either. It just is.

Sex is one more way for me to disconnect. Except with Ophelia, it doesn’t feel like disconnecting. It feels different. Not permanent or anything like that, because I’m so not going there, but … it feels good. Like I’m connected to something besides the total fuck-up that is my past. That is my life.

Reaching inside my jacket, I pull my phone out of one of the zippered pockets with the vague idea of texting her to see if she wants to catch dinner when she gets off work. But before I can do much more than swipe my finger across the screen, the thing starts to ring. I glance down at the number, hoping it’s her. It’s not, so I let it roll to voicemail.

The only problem is, my voicemail is full. Plus, when I flip over to messages, it says I’ve got one hundred and eighty-seven new ones—from other boarders, from three of my sponsors, and from a bunch of snowboarding sites and magazines.

For the first time, I plug back into what Ash is saying. “What the hell’s going on?” I demand. “My phone fucking exploded in the last six hours.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The video of you going down the mountain has fucking blown up.”

“You posted it already?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am, but I’m having a hard time keeping up. “Damn right I did. I cleaned up the beginning and then posted it on YouTube and the website yesterday afternoon. That’s all I did, man. Just put it up, linked to it a couple of places, and let it go. And people are going nuts for it. You should see the comments—a ton of the greats have watched it and left messages. Plus they’re spreading it around. No one can believe the tricks you shredded, not to mention the sheer balls it took to just go off the mountain the way you did.” He pumps a fist in the air. “You’re a fucking legend, man.”

I stare at him, barely able to comprehend what he’s saying. “I don’t want to be a legend.”

“Too late for that,” Luc says, coming up behind me and clapping me on the back. He’s just gotten off the lift and his phone is in his hand. “They’ve embedded that video into every major snowboarding site in the world. The pingbacks are coming in every few seconds.”

“Shit. Are you serious?”

He shoves his phone in my face, shows me the latest stats on the website we share—and they’re insane. Totally insane. Page hits, visitors, comments. And yeah, pingbacks. Hundreds, sometimes thousands of them, every hour.

What. The. Fuck.

“Is this really happening?” I ask. But before anyone can answer, my phone rings again, followed by a couple of beeps that mean I’ve gotten more text messages.

Shit. Who knew one little trip off a mountain could cause so much damn trouble? If I’d known, I would have smashed the damn GoPro to bits rather than let Ash have it.

“We need a plan, man.” Ash is all but rubbing his hands together with glee. “You need to call Mitch, figure out how you’re going to capitalize on this. I told you, going into the trials, this is going to be huge.”

“And I told you, I don’t give a shit about the trials.”

“We know, we know.” Cam punches me in the shoulder. “But let’s pretend just for a minute that you’re normal and you care about things like this, okay? You don’t have to be excited about it, but can you at least let us be excited about it for you? This is fucking awesome!”

It’s something. I’m not exactly sure awesome is the word I’d use to describe it. But it’s something.

My phone rings again, and I check the ID. It’s Mitch, the agent Ash, Luc, and I share. For what looks like the seventh or eighth time. “I think Mitch already knows.” I hold up my phone, shake it a little.

“Yes!” Ash punches the air. “I say we take the rest of the day off the slopes and start planning how we’re going to use this to get you more endorsements—and a shot at Olympic gold.”

I shake my head, start to argue with him about the fact that I want neither of those things. But it doesn’t matter. Ash is off and running, his vision for us—for me—even bigger than it’s ever been before. For now, I’ll just let him run, get the energy out. Then we can talk about what I want versus what he and the others want for me.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Luc agrees, nearly as hyped up as Ash. “Powwow at Ash’s and my place. We’ll start by calling Mitch, see what he has to say, and then go from there.”

Yay. I’m so fucking excited I can barely contain myself. “I’m stopping by the lodge first. I want to see Ophelia.”

“Seriously?” Cam asks. “You’re still going on about her? I thought you’d be over it by now.”

“Over it? He’s got his fucking Burton on the line. Of course he’s not over it,” Luc tells her. “He’s got to bang her before the competition starts on Friday or he loses his soon-to-be-legendary snowboard.”

If I thought it would shut him the fuck up about the stupid bet, I’d give him the thing now, even if it is my favorite. I wasn’t trying to be a disrespectful asshole when I made the bet, but now that I’m with Ophelia—or at least kind of with her—it seems fucking horrible.

Of course, I could end everything by telling them I won the bet, but that seems even worse. Which means, at least for now, I’m stuck taking all the shit Luc decides to dish out. But as he heads through the huge front doors into the main lodge, I promise myself that payback is going to be a bitch.

It’s late in the day, so the coffee bar is crowded when we get there. Ophelia’s working behind the counter with three other people, and the line is still out of control.

“Maybe this could wait,” Ash says. “We’ve got stuff to do.”

“You can go on,” I tell him, not taking my eyes off the beautiful girl I’ve spent the last two nights with. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. We’re not letting you out of our sight.”

He weaves through the crowded room, snags us a table in the back corner. “I just texted Mitch, and he’s got a meeting for the next two hours anyway. We’ve got some time to kill, and we might as well do it here.” He settles into the booth and kicks his feet out like he owns the thing. “I’ll take a large Power O.”

“Me too,” chimes in Cam as she slides in opposite Ash.

“Me three,” adds Luc, settling in next to Cam.

I think about telling them to get their own damn drinks, but who am I kidding? Getting up to that counter is the only reason I’m here.

“Think he’ll do any better than last time?” I hear Luc ask as I walk away.

“I don’t know,” Cam says. “Ophelia seems tough, but he is Z.”

I put my hands behind my back, flip them all off, then keep walking as their laughter sounds behind me. It’s a long line and I prepare myself for the wait, but I’m only standing there a couple of minutes before my phone dings out another text.

I almost ignore it, considering that the ones I’ve gotten so far have been all about shit that doesn’t interest me. But I’ve got nothing else to do, so I figure I might as well look at it. Turns out it’s from Ophelia.

My break’s in ten. I’ll bring your drinks out then. Three Power O’s and a …?

Have you made up your mind yet?

I know she’s referring to the whole give-me-something-sweet debacle that went down the last time I was here, and I laugh out loud. My girl’s a clever one.

Large coffee, black. It turns out I much prefer strong and bitter to sweet.

I send the text, then stay where I am because it gives me a good view of her face. She makes a few more drinks before she pulls out her phone and checks the text. When she does, she turns around to face me and sticks her tongue out at me.

I can’t help but laugh, then fire off one last text.

Promises, promises. Don’t think I won’t hold you to that.

I’m heading back to the table when her last text comes in.

I’m looking forward to it.

I stumble, nearly run into some poor woman carrying a tray of drinks. Shit. I’m never clumsy, but a couple of days with Ophelia and I’m practically tripping over my own feet. This doesn’t bode well for my snowboarding future, but considering how fucking happy I feel right now, I’d say it was an even trade.

When I get back to the table, my idiot best friends all look at me like I’m crazy.

“What? You gave up already?” Luc asks. “It’s like you’re just giving me the snowboard.”

“Chill out. The drinks are coming.”

Cam looks annoyed. “Which of the other girls did you talk into making our order?”

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

That seems to placate Luc and Ash, though Cam still looks pissed as the guys go back to the website, continuing to check out the stats and trying to figure out if they need to change the home page around to get maximum exposure.

I spend the time barely listening—the web page has never really been of much interest to me—and glancing at the counter every ninety seconds or so, trying to see when Ophelia is coming. It seems forever before I see her walking toward us, a full tray of drinks balanced on one arm.

I can’t help grinning as I jump up to meet her halfway. “Hey, let me help with that.”

For a second she looks like she’s going to fight me for it, but then she lets go with a soft smile. “What do you say you give the drinks to your friends and then meet me around back? I’ve got twenty minutes before I have to be back on shift.”

“I can do a lot in twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m counting on.” She bites her lip, looks at me from under her lashes. And I nearly dump the whole damn tray on the ground.

Shit. I can barely function. Ophelia’s in front of me, her lush hips wiggling just a little extra, and I’m spellbound by this flirty, sexy side of her. Suddenly I can’t wait to find a little privacy and spend the next twenty minutes making her come.

When we get back to the table, I all but throw the drinks at my friends before reaching for Ophelia’s hand. But, after getting me all fucking worked up, she’s got other ideas. She actually wants to talk to my friends, which normally I’d be fine with. But I can feel her allotted twenty minutes slowly ticking away and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to wait to the end of her shift to get her alone.

For their parts, all of my friends look surprised to see Ophelia standing so close to me. “I didn’t know you guys had gotten to be friends,” Luc says, eyeing me suspiciously.

When I don’t say anything, Ophelia turns to frown at me. I merely shrug, not willing to get dragged into a discussion of why I didn’t tell my friends about her, but then it suddenly seems to dawn on her.

Instead of just going with it, she raises her brows at me and says, “You didn’t tell them you won the bet, did you?”

Fuck. “No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t.”

“You totally should have. You won it fairly spectacularly, after all.” She bats her eyelashes, all flirtatious teasing, and it’s all I can do not to kiss her right here in front of everyone.

The only thing stopping me is, “It’s nobody’s business what we do.”

Luc’s and Ash’s mouths actually drop open while Cam just sits there, staring broodingly into the depths of her drink.

“She knows about the bet?” Ash asks, incredulous.

“You won the bet and you didn’t tell me?” Luc adds. “When did it happen?”

“Again, none of your business.” I’ve never had any trouble when my friends talk about the other girls I’ve slept with, but I don’t like the way this conversation is going. I don’t like them even thinking about Ophelia sexually, let alone discussing when we did what.

“I beg to differ. If I’m giving up my Flow Darwin—” He breaks off as Ash elbows him. Hard.

“I don’t need your snowboard, man,” I tell him.

He whoops in relief, but Ophelia is having no part of it. “I’m sorry, but a bet’s a bet,” she says. “I’d like to think I was worth at least a snowboard.”

“So much more than that,” Lucas assures her. “I’m sure of it.”

I reach over and shove him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hey! What’d you do that for? I was complimenting Ophelia.”

“She doesn’t need your compliments.”

Now all four of them are looking at me like I’m crazy. Hell, maybe I am. I know I’ve never felt like this about anyone before—happy and protective and horny and scared out of my mind that I’m going to screw it up like I do everything else in my life. It’s not a good combination, and I can’t help wondering if we wouldn’t all do better if I just got off the ride. But that would mean walking away from Ophelia, and I’m not ready to do that. Not even close.

“Again, I beg to differ,” Ophelia says in her haughtiest voice. “I will take all the compliments I can get.” When I start to respond, she holds her hands up. “It’s a girl thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You could explain it to me outside,” I tell her, grabbing her hand and pulling her into my side.

“I could,” she agrees, lacing her fingers through mine.

Excellent. I start to tug her away, except my phone chooses to vibrate on the table where I dropped it, announcing that yet another text has arrived. I ignore it—I’ve got better things to do than to worry about who wants a piece of me—but Ash is having no part of it. He unlocks the phone and checks out the latest message. As he reads, the color drains from his face.

“What’s wrong?” I demand, pulling the phone from his hand.

“Mitch just texted. They want to put you on the cover of Sports Illustrated in February.”

“Seriously? That’s what you look so freaked out about?” I shove an annoyed hand through my hair. “I thought something was wrong.”

“It’s for the Olympics issue, Z. They want you to be the cover of the Winter Olympics Sports Illustrated.”

Before I can say anything else about it, Ophelia all but jumps up and down with joy. “Oh my God, Z! That’s amazing.”

Not as amazing as spending the next fifteen minutes making out with her. I start to say that, but she’s already reaching for my phone.

“I want to see,” she tells Ash.

He hands it over willingly, but as she goes to read it she must notice the zillion or other texts that have come in today, because she turns to me. “What happened? It looks like your phone went crazy today.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Luc squawks. “It’s everything. Check this out.”

Then he’s pulling up the video on his phone and handing it to Ophelia.

She watches in silence, but I can see the way her hands are shaking and how she’s jiggling her knee. The others have crowded around to watch it one more time—even Cam, though she stays as far from Ophelia as she can get and still see the phone—and I don’t think they notice, but I can’t pay attention to anything else.

When the video is over, Ophelia asks, “This is you?” Her green eyes are huge in her white face, and they’re that malachite color again. The one that means she’s holding on by her fingertips. “You did that?”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It was no big deal—”

“No big deal?” Luc again. “It was epic, man. You didn’t even look. You just took off the side of the mountain, no trail, no nothing, and you rode it!”

His voice rings with pride, and still I contemplate murdering him where he stands. I shoot him a look, one that tells him to shut the hell up because he’s not helping. I think he gets it because he closes his mouth, but the damage has already been done.

Ophelia’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Or broken her heart. “You threw yourself off a fucking mountain? You didn’t even check to see if there was a path? You just literally threw yourself off the mountain?” Her voice gets a little higher with every syllable.

I shrug. I’m totally out of my element here and don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to say.

“I can’t—” Her voice breaks, and suddenly she turns away. “I need to get back to work,” she calls over her shoulder, even though it’s only been ten minutes and she’s walking in the wrong direction.

“Hey, Ophelia, wait,” I tell her, hustling after her. The girl can really move when she wants to, those long legs of hers eating up the space between our table and the employee break room. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t,” she tells me, her voice sounding muffled even though she’s right in front of me. “Not right now. I just can’t.”

She swipes her passkey across the sensor, and the door to the break room unlocks. “I’ll see you later,” she tells me, pushing it open and stepping inside.

“Wait a minute.” I shove my foot in the door, catch it the same way I caught the door of her room the first night we ever went out. I’m not sure what it says that this girl is always trying to put barriers between us—any more than I know why I’m so determined not to let her. “That’s it? You’re just going to walk away without talking to me about why you’re upset? That’s bullshit!”

“Oh, no,” she whispers harshly, lowering her voice in an effort to keep this just between us. I could have told her it was too late for that—already I can see the other employees in the room straining to hear what we’re fighting about. “You don’t get to turn this around. You know exactly what’s got me so upset, so don’t pretend that you don’t.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her, holding my arms out and spinning around as if that will get the truth through her thick head. “I’m absolutely fine.”

“This time,” she shoots back. “But what about the next time, or the time after that, or the time after that? One of these times you’re going to do something stupid, something reckless, and you’re not going to make it through it. You’re going to die and—”

“Goddamnit!” Fury swamps me as I figure out what this is really about. It takes me over, and I slam my fist into the wall next to her head, ignoring the pain that shoots out from my already bruised knuckles. “This isn’t about me at all. This is about Remi and that car accident.”

“No!”

“Yes. Fuck, yes, it is.” I pull my hand back, start to slam it into the wall again. But the look on her face is so pained, so upset, that I end up shoving it deep into my pocket instead.

“Just because something bad happened to him doesn’t mean it’s going to happen to me, too,” I tell her, because I have to make her understand.

“Just because you think you’re invincible doesn’t mean you really are,” she counters.

I search her face, try to figure out how to reach her. But she’s totally closed herself off from me. It panics me and pisses me off all at the same time.

“You knew I was a snowboarder when you slept with me. Nothing’s changed.”

She starts to say something, but seems to think better of it. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe nothing has changed—except my perception. I knew you did the half-pipe, knew you did the really advanced runs around here. But what I saw on that video—” She shakes her head. “That’s something totally different. I’m not sure I can deal with that.”

“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to. Because me boarding backcountry’s not going to change. I can’t not do that.”

“I know.” She nods, her hand coming up to cup my cheek. “I’m not asking you to stop. I’m just saying I don’t think I can be a part of it. Not if I want to stay sane.”

Then she’s pushing up onto her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss against my mouth. “You need to go, Z.”

“Go?” This afternoon has turned out so differently than I expected it to that I’m dazed. Confused. “Now? But we’re not done talking.”

At least I don’t think we are. I’ve never actually done one of these relationship talks before, but it doesn’t feel like we’re anywhere close to finished.

“I’ve got to go back to work. And I need a few minutes to myself before I do.” She pushes me back gently, and I go because I don’t know what else to do. What else to say.

“I’ll call you,” she tells me. But I’ve heard those words before—hell, I’ve said them a million times myself—and they never mean what they say they do.

I start to tell her so, to tell her she can’t just walk away from this thing between us, but she already has. I can see it in her eyes. And even if I couldn’t, the door she closes between us seems pretty damn final to me.

Chapter 18

Ophelia

Closing that door on Z is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Especially with the way he was looking at me, as though in trying to take care of myself I had managed to totally shred him.

Just the thought has me swiping my hands across my cheeks, collecting the hot tears that started flowing without my knowledge or permission. Who knew? Looks like I’m pretty shredded myself.

Which is stupid. I haven’t even known this guy a week. How could he creep inside me so quickly? How could he turn me inside out without any explanation? It’s not like I didn’t know, not like I wasn’t warned. By Cam. By my uncle. By all the many, many stories I’ve heard about him in just the two weeks I’ve worked here.

And it’s not as if I haven’t been down this road before, with Remi. Remi. His absence is still a black hole within me eleven months later. One would think I would’ve learned, yet here I am again, courting disaster with Z.

Z, who I can already tell has the potential to be so much more than an emotional void.

Z, who when shit goes bad won’t just turn into a black hole. He’ll go supernova and burn everything around him to a crisp. Even me.

Especially me.

I glance at my watch, realize it’s almost time for my break to be over. I’ve got just enough time to rinse my face in the bathroom and then I’ve got to head back. Which sucks. The last thing I want to do is make coffee for the next three hours, especially when every time I close my eyes I can see Z’s smile as he stands near my Keurig, brewing coffee for me two mornings in a row.

As expected, the rest of the afternoon drags, and by the time I head out to my car I’m totally beat. Yes, I drove this morning, and while it was nerve-racking being behind the wheel of my car again, I did it—thanks to Z, who not only made me face my fear and drive a car again but also brought my car to the shop early this morning to have snow tires and chains put on it.

Just thinking about it shreds me all over again. Remi would have made sure I knew to get snow tires, would have hounded me until I did it, but he still would have expected me to do it. Not like Z, who just did it for me. Not because he doesn’t think I’m capable, but because that’s who he is. He takes care of me when I don’t even know I want to be taken care of.

No one has ever treated me like that in my life, not really, and the fact that Z—crazy, fucked-up Z—is the one who thinks of me, who treats me like I’m precious, blows my mind. It also makes me wonder if I was too harsh earlier. If I’d been so caught up in my worry over Z’s ride that I let it bleed all over my ability to be rational.

I don’t know, and right now I don’t want to think about it. All I want to do is go back to my room, get into my pajamas, and fall asleep watching TV. It’s not how I planned on spending the evening, but it’ll do. Better than spending the whole night moping about something that probably never had a chance of working out anyway.

Except once I’m in my room and in my pajamas, I can’t settle. I keep thinking about Z and that video and wondering if I overreacted. So finally, because I can’t stop myself, I get on my laptop and Google Z’s ride. But the second I do, I swear the whole freaking Net explodes in front of me.

No wonder Sports Illustrated was calling, along with everyone else in the known world. The thing’s only been up a day and a half and already it’s got one and a half million hits. And the comments are insane. Totally insane. I knew Z was talented—everyone keeps saying it, so I figure it must be true—but I guess what he does in this video is totally off the charts.

A little research teaches me that there’s only one or two other riders in the world who can land the tricks he lands, and that’s in the controlled environment of the half-pipe. The fact that he did it backcountry—after having literally thrown himself off the side of a mountain—is pretty much unheard of.

So maybe I did judge him too harshly. This kind of talent has to breed confidence. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. In which case he’s an adrenaline junkie but not a total moron.

But even as I try to convince myself of that, Cam’s scream at the beginning haunts me. It also tells me there was no preparation here at all. Z went off that mountain with no warning, no planning, no nothing. And that is worse than being a junkie or an idiot. It reveals a total lack of concern about his personal safety. I know, because I’ve been down this road before with Remi. I know exactly what it looks like.

After I watch the video about fifteen times—and manage to do nothing but scare the hell out of myself—I start looking for other videos of Z. Him riding backcountry or in competition or just stuff he does on the slopes here in Park City. It turns out there’s a lot of stuff about him out there—he’s more famous in the snowboarding world than I ever imagined. Between YouTube, the major snowboarding sites, and the website that he, Ash, and Luc have together, I find out more about him than I ever wanted to know. Especially the fact that there’s a different girl—or three—in every single video and they’re all looking at Z like he hung the fucking moon.

Then again, if he could give each of them ten orgasms in a night, is there any wonder they think he’s amazing? Even if he did dump their asses the morning after. God knows, two nights in his arms and I’ve fallen pretty damn hard myself.

I watch all the footage I can of Z. Competition footage, GoPro footage, phone video cameras. I watch it all. And what I find startles me—and freaks me out more than I could ever have imagined. Because when it comes to snowboarding, there are two very distinct Zs who show up: the Z who’s out there going balls to the wall because he wants to have a good time and get his adrenaline on, and the Z who’s out there because he wants to punish himself.

It takes me a while to pick up on it, but the fourth or fifth time I see the face, I start to recognize it. Before he even leaves the top of the pipe or the hill, I can tell how the run is going to go. And I’m right every time.

He starts out nailing whatever it is he’s doing, getting huge air, landing big tricks, and everything looks great. The commentators are excited, they’re talking about how he’s going to do it this time, how he’s going to break the curse, how he’s totally in podium contention … and then he blows it. He overextends or he overrotates or he lands wrong—and inevitably he ends up getting hurt.

A torn rotator cuff. A concussion. Busted ribs. Even a broken jaw eighteen months ago. All pretty normal injuries for snowboarders, a result of normal mistakes made by normal riders all the time. But Z isn’t a normal rider, and when he’s on his game, he’s fucking flawless. He doesn’t make mistakes. He doesn’t give up a quarter of a point. And he sure as hell doesn’t overrotate. The problem is, those days are few and far between. Much more regularly, you can see the self-loathing in his eyes before the ride and you can predict it’s going to go badly.

And, inevitably, it does. So much so that the commentators talk about him being cursed. About his rough childhood and the difficult time he’s had since then. No one says any more than that, but everyone seems to know what’s going on with him. Everyone, that is, but me.

I start to poke around some more, to find out what it is about his early life that has everyone giving him a pass. I mean, yes, he’s really charming when he wants to be. And yes, he’s smart and funny, charismatic, and very good-looking (which, I know, a lot of people say is enough to forgive him anything).

But is that really the truth? Does it not matter that he throws his talent away, that he deliberately tries to hurt himself? Or is there something else there, something that makes even the most unforgivable behavior forgivable?

It has to be the latter, has to be that there’s something I don’t know. But I figure that if it’s as bad as all that, he should be the one to tell me himself. I’d hate for him to dig around online and come up with stories about what happened with Remi instead of just asking me about it, so I figure I need to give him the same courtesy, no matter how much I want to know the truth.

Which is why, even though I’m dying to find out what’s haunting Z, I step away from the laptop. I close it up, put it away, try to focus on something else. Anything else.

It’s not as easy as it sounds, and when I fall asleep two hours later, it’s to memories of Z—what I’ve observed and what I suspect blending together in one nightmarish dream that feels an awful lot like what I imagine hell to be.

Chapter 19

Z

I’m not going to lie. I think about drinking myself to sleep. I think about pulling a bottle of Herradura out of the bar and taking it with me when I climb upstairs to the master bedroom I’ve slept in for years, ever since I “inherited” this place from my father. Oh, it’s nothing official, but he knows and I know that he’ll never set foot in this house again. When he came back for my high school graduation—after having left me here, on my own, since I was sixteen—he stayed in a hotel.

He asked me about selling it then, and buying a different property. I almost said yes because I’m not sure that it’s healthy for me to be living in this place. Just like I’m not sure why I insist on staying. Is it because I feel closer to them here and I don’t want to lose that feeling, or because I feel like I need to be punished and staying here does quite a good job of it? I don’t have a clue, but on nights like tonight, it feels more like a ten-million-dollar mausoleum than the home my mother worked so hard to make for us.

Even so, the tequila doesn’t appeal. And neither does the stash of weed I picked up on my way back here. Truthfully, nothing does but being with Ophelia, and that’s the only thing that’s actually out of the question right now.

In the end, I don’t do anything. I just sit out on the patio that overlooks much of Park City and stare at the lights for hours. It’s freezing out—below freezing, actually—but I don’t feel the cold. Not when my head is stuck halfway between the past and now.

I think about going out to the half-pipe, throwing down a few runs to tire myself out. But for what might be the first time ever, I’m not in the mood to board. How can I be when everything about it reminds me of Ophelia and why she walked away from me today without ever giving us a real chance?

Which is fine. More than fine, actually. The last thing I need is a woman cluttering shit up inside me. Fuck knows, things are more than cluttered enough in there already. It’s only been a few days and already I think about her more than I should. Already I’m upset that she shut that door on me today—literally and figuratively. If I’m this upset after a week, what would it be like if I really fell for her and she decided to boot me out in a month? Or six months?

Not that I planned to stick around that long. A week is pretty much more commitment than I’ve ever given a girl, any girl, so thinking about more—even if it is with Ophelia—seems crazy. And yet, as I look out at all those lights down below me, lights that feel so incredibly far away even though they really aren’t, I can’t help wishing she was here. Whether I deserve her or not.

Midnight rolls around. One o’clock in the morning. Two o’clock. Three o’clock, and still I sit out here staring into the darkness. Finally I say to hell with it. I’m going to go crazy if I just stay here for the rest of the night. I need to do something—anything—to distract me. Even if there’s nothing I want to do.

I walk down to the garage, think about taking out the Range Rover or my Harley, just going for a fast ride to nowhere over the newly salted streets. But that doesn’t appeal, either, so I pull my jacket closed, grab a scarf and a pair of gloves, and set off on foot, straight up the steepest mountain trail I can find.

It’s still dark out, dawn not even a thought on the horizon. It doesn’t take long for the glow of my yard lights to fade and then I’m hiking in the black, with nothing but the stars and my knowledge of the terrain to guide me. Which is fine. I’ve been up this trail hundreds, thousands of times in the last few years, mostly at night. One more time won’t kill me, even if I wish it would. But I’m a long way from hypothermia despite freezing my ass off.

The wind is fierce tonight and it’s ripping right through my clothes like they’re not even there. I don’t feel it so much when I’m shredding the mountain in my gear, but my jeans and this jacket are a long way from cutting it. I should turn around, but I know that if I go back into that house right now, I’ll lose my shit completely. Already the need to trash something is a razor blade inside me.

But not there. Not in front of Luc or Ash or Cam, all of whom are sacked out in the family room after our late-night planning session with Mitch. A planning session I wanted no part of but was somehow suckered into attending anyway. Between him and Ash, there are a million new plans being hatched for me, none of which I have any interest in whatsoever. Plans that include new, bigger sponsorships for me and the others, which is the only reason I don’t say no outright. I’m the only one of the group not living on my snowboarding sponsorships and endorsements. The only one with a big fat family fortune (courtesy of the tech industry) and a couple of trust funds (courtesy of my mom’s death and my dad’s determination not to have anything to do with me) to fall back on. And since bigger endorsements for me means bigger endorsements for them—from the beginning we’ve always made it clear that we’re a team—it’s almost impossible for me to say what I want to say. Which is not just no, but fuck no.

But again, I can’t say that. I can’t do that. Can’t do anything that I want to right now, not when my friends believe that things are finally getting better, that I’m finally getting better. I know what they’re thinking, know they’re figuring that hell week—the one week a year where I totally lose my shit—is just about over and it’s time for me to get back to normal.

These days I know what they’re thinking as well as they do, and I’ve spent the last few years trying to live up to their expectations of me because it’s easier. And because it works, makes me look like I’m not so fucking broken.

Lately, though, I feel like living down to their fears instead. Everything would be so much easier. Because the truth is, I’m not getting any better. I’m just getting good at hiding how fucked up I am, for whatever that’s worth. Or at least I was. Funny how Ophelia, who’s only known me a week, seems to see me more clearly than my closest friends do. She sees right through the act I’ve spent years perfecting.

Because that thought gets me by the throat, I try to pretend it away. Or, if I can’t actually make it disappear, at least ignore it.

The trail I’m on narrows suddenly, and still I hike up it a few hundred more feet, taking a path only a mountain goat could easily follow. I slip and slide a few times as my boots lose traction, knock my shoulder hard against a tree, bang a knee on some large rocks. But the pain does it for me—it always has—and I work through it. Press on.

By the time I get to a decent-sized plateau I’m huffing and puffing, and I pause for a minute to catch my breath. As I do, a strong gale comes tearing across the terrain, rattling branches and bending some of the younger trees nearly to the ground. I brace for it, head down, shoulders hunched, feet firmly grounded, and still it almost levels me.

I fight to stay on my feet—I hate getting knocked around by anything but my own stupidity—and keep climbing when I succeed.

I don’t know where I’m going. Don’t know where I am or even where I’ve been. I know only that I don’t want to be who I am, what I am, one second longer.

I veer off the trail I know—it’s too easy, gives me too much time to think—and start climbing a sheer rock wall that is almost completely vertical. It’s a stupid move—there aren’t a lot of handholds and the ones I do find are slippery with ice and snow—but I don’t give a shit.

I slip a few times on my way up, end up clinging to the cliff with nothing but my fingertips and my will more times than I can count. This was a stupid idea, and for a second, just a second, I think about going back down. But I’m at that weird spot where I’m a little more than halfway up and it’s easier and safer now to keep climbing instead of turning back.

So that’s what I do, one perilous handhold at a time. I climb and climb and climb.

I’m only a few feet from the top, balanced precariously on a narrow shelf, when disaster strikes. I’m standing on my toes, pulling myself up with my left hand as I search for a place to put my right, when the chunk of ice I’m holding on to breaks off and crashes to the ground. I start to fall, and somehow—I don’t know how—I manage to find a handhold for my right hand.

But I’ve slipped down a few feet, and no matter how hard I try to find purchase for my boots, there isn’t anything. Just a sheer, slick wall of ice covering the mountain and making it impossible for my feet to do anything but slip and slide across it.

Which means I’ve got nothing to stand on.

Which means the only thing standing between me and a thirty-foot drop to the hard, bumpy plateau below is the precarious grip my half-frozen fingers have on one icy rock.

The thought doesn’t scare me nearly as much as it should.

Still, the human body’s fight for self-preservation isn’t easily ignored. My heart is beating like the drums in a rock-and-roll anthem, adrenaline racing through my system. The whole fight-or-flight thing is totally kicking in, only I’ve got no one to fight and nowhere to run. I spend a few desperate seconds searching for another hold for my left hand—something, anything I can grab on to. But even as I’m doing it, even as I’m frantically looking for a way to stay alive, it occurs to me how easy things would be if I don’t find one.

How easy they would be if I just stop fighting.

I’m tired. I’m so goddamn tired of fighting. And I don’t have to be. I could just stop right here. Right now.

I’ve told myself a million times that if I could just curl up and die, I would. I’ve held my father’s gun to my head, boarded down the most dangerous slopes I could find, driven way too fast down deserted roads on the ice in my SUV or on my bike. I’ve spent years playing Russian roulette with my life, doing the stupidest shit imaginable in an effort to just wipe myself out without actually committing suicide. Without taking the selfish way out.

So maybe this is it. Maybe all that shit has finally caught up to me and this is my moment. The one fucking situation I just can’t escape from.

It seems so easy, so perfect.

Especially since I don’t really have to do anything. I could just hang here a little while, let gravity do its thing. Nobody would know. Nobody but me, and I’m sure as shit not telling anyone.

My hand slips a little more, and I let it. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, will myself to just let go.

But Ophelia’s face flashes in front of my eyes, and my fingers refuse to budge. And I can’t make them. Can’t will them to no matter how much I want to. Suicide is a coward’s way out, and that’s one thing—maybe the only thing—I’m not. I’m an asshole, a loser, a careless, reckless freak who doesn’t give two shits about himself or anyone else, but I am not a coward.

Besides, killing myself is way too easy, and if there’s one thing I don’t deserve, it’s to get off easy. Not when April never had that option.

An image of her—of my sweet, adorable little sister in her powder-pink dress and tap shoes—dances in front of my eyes, so real that I swear I could touch it. But it’s just a mirage, just a hope that will never be realized, and I shove it down deep inside me, where it can fester some more.

My fingers are cramping up, and I know that in a minute, two at the outside, the choice is going to be out of my hands. Literally.

Fuck it. I reach out my left hand, skim it quickly over the rocks. I finally find a little indention about two feet above my head. It’s not much, but it’s slanted down and I can get fairly decent purchase with three of my fingers. So that’s what I do as I bend my knees and pull my feet up a few inches to try and find a place to rest them, too.

I encounter a tiny shelf a few inches to my right, put my foot on it, and push up as hard as I can. Then I reach up, find another handhold, and pull. Hands, feet. Hands, feet.

I do this three more times before I get to the top of the cliff. I pull myself over and collapse on the snow-covered ground. I turn my head, draw deep breaths into my lungs as the adrenaline finally stops rocketing through my veins, then roll over and stare up at the sky.

I start to laugh, deep, painful bellows—out of relief or agony or pure, unadulterated hysteria—I don’t know. But once I start, I can’t stop.

I don’t know how long I lie there staring up at the night sky, laughing my fucking ass off.

Long enough for the cold wet of the snow to seep through my jeans and sink into my bones.

Long enough for the stars to slowly fade away as the red and violet tendrils of dawn streak slowly across the sky.

More than long enough for thoughts of Ophelia to sneak back into my consciousness. An image of her, empty coffee cup in hand and green eyes sparking with triumph, flashes through my mind, and I stop laughing. Start wondering.

What’s she doing right now?

What’s she thinking about?

Then I snort at my own stupidity. It’s barely four-thirty in the morning. She’s sleeping, tucked up nice and snug and cozy in her bed. Another image works its way into my brain, this one of Ophelia in a sexy little nightie curled up under the covers. Or, better yet, sprawled across the bed, legs open and nightgown creeping up her thighs so I can see … everything.

Her blond hair spread out across the pillow.

Her creamy skin flushed pink with heat.

Her perfect tits straining against the tight lace of her gown while her pu—

Lust slams into me with all the finesse of a snowplow at high speed. In an instant I’m rock hard and ready, hands shaking with the force of the need ripping through me.

What the fuck?

I’m half frozen and minutes out of one of the deadliest situations I’ve ever been in, and still I want this girl so badly that I can barely breathe with it. I’ve had her—over and over and over again, I’ve had her—and still I’m tied up in knots because of her. Still I’m jonesing for more. There are a thousand girls out there I can tap with no more than a smile. What is it about Ophelia that makes me want her so bad?

Correction—what makes me want to fuck her so bad? Wanting her … that’s a whole different story, and one I refuse to have any part of. Not when it’s so easy for her to kick me out of her life.

A wolf howls in the distance, a long, sad, lonely sound that chills me in a way the frozen ground never could. I sit up, slowly push my shivering body to its feet, and begin to walk. With dawn slowly rising around me, it’s easy to see where the new trail—and climb—have taken me. I’m on Lost Canyon property, less than a mile from the first ski lift and the employee lodge.

I wonder if Ophelia really is sleeping or if she’s wide awake, too.

Once the thought enters my head, I can’t shake it. And even though I deliberately turn in the other direction, I find myself circling back round toward the lodge. Back toward her. It’s like there’s a string around my waist, one that draws me to her even when I want to be anywhere else.

I start to fight it, to turn around and go somewhere else, but in the end I’m standing in the hallway outside her door—someone must have left the outside door propped open for a midnight booty call who never showed—telling myself to walk away. To just walk away.

I don’t know how long I stand there, thinking, waiting, trying to figure out the right thing to do. Walk away or knock. Knock or walk away.

And in the end I do exactly what I always knew I would do, exactly what I have to do to stay sane.

I turn and walk away.

Chapter 20

Ophelia

It’s a little after four-thirty in the morning when I finish folding the last of my laundry and start the long trek back up to my room with my laundry basket in front of my face. This is the perfect time to wash clothes—everyone’s asleep and I had all the machines to myself—but at the same time, it’s going to be a long day. The two hours of sleep I managed to grab aren’t going to do me much good come afternoon rush at the coffee bar.

I’m on the stairs, on the landing halfway between the second floor and the third, laundry basket in front of my face, when I bump into a solid wall of … something. For a second I freak out as images of Harvey flip through my head at lightning speed. But before I can do more than register my fear, two strong, cold hands reach out and grab my shoulders to steady me. And though I still can’t see who it is, I can tell from the way he’s touching me that it’s Z in front of me.

“Hey, Ophelia. You okay?” The heavy basket is gently removed from my arms and I find myself staring into the concerned blue of Z’s midnight eyes.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. Which is true, as long as you don’t count the fact that my heart is beating like a metronome on high. It’s as though being this close to him actually causes my body to completely wig out.

“You sure?” He’s got the basket balanced in one hand and the other wraps around my elbow as he guides me up the last of the stairs. “I didn’t hurt you?”

I smile at him. “I’m good, Z.”

He came. He came. I can’t believe he came. I can’t believe he came. Even though I didn’t want him to, even though I told him I needed space. He came anyway.

The words are a happy mantra inside me as we walk the short distance down the hallway to my door. He came. He came. He came.

When we get to my room, we pause awkwardly while I fumble my key out of my sweatpants pocket. Once I get the door opened, he hands me my basket and takes a few steps back, like he can’t get out of here fast enough.

That’s when it occurs to me that maybe he’s not here for me. Maybe he was leaving one of the other girls’ rooms and I just happened to be coming up the stairs at the worst possible time. Maybe I ran into him because he was here, having sex, with somebody else.

Just the thought makes me sick. So sick that it’s all I can do not to burst into tears before I can even fumble the door shut. But I’ve cried enough over this guy. Cried more over him in the last week than I have over Remi in the last eleven months. There’s something wrong there, and it’s about time I put it to rights. About time I stop worrying about Z Michaels and start worrying about me.

Except now that I look at him, really look at him, he doesn’t look like he’s just crawled out of anyone’s bed. He’s dripping wet and shivering so badly that I can almost hear his teeth knocking together from where I’m standing.

I drop the basket inside the door of my apartment, then reach for him. “What happened to you?” I demand, pulling him inside and locking the door behind him. For the first time, I register just how cold his body is.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I ask, brow raised. “Is that why you look like you’re one very small step away from hypothermia?”

I walk over to the thermostat, turn it up to eighty. Then I come back and fumble his jacket off his shoulders. “You need to get out of your clothes. They’re soaking wet.”

He smiles at me as I pull his T-shirt up and over his head. It’s nowhere near as wet as his jeans and jacket, but still, he can’t stay in it. Not when he’s halfway to frostbite already.

“It seems I spend half my time getting you out of your clothes,” I tell him, tossing the shirt onto a nearby chair before starting on his belt buckle. He tries to fumble it off himself, but his fingers are so cold that they aren’t cooperating. “If you’re so anxious to be naked around me, you should just ask. It’ll save you a hell of a lot of wear and tear on your body.”

He grins, and it’s the same here-let-me-help-you-out-of-your-panties grin that he first leveled at me. It works way better now than it did the night we met.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks around his chattering teeth.

I raise a brow at him. “I thought you had plenty of fun the last two nights.”

He strips off his jeans with a little help from me, then pulls me flush against him. “I did. Want to go for three?”

“What I want,” I tell him as I shove him toward the bathroom clad only in his boxer shorts, “is for you to take a hot shower. Get warmed up and then we’ll talk.”

“I’d get warmer faster if you took a shower with me.”

“Maybe you would,” I tell him, “but I’m going to take the time to once again throw your clothes in the dryer.”

“I’ve already seen you naked, you know.”

“I know. But whether or not you see me naked again is totally up to my discretion, and at this point I haven’t made up my mind.”

“Come closer,” he tells me with a wicked look that even his chattering teeth can’t dilute. “I bet I could convince you.”

I bet he could, too, which is exactly why I’m staying on this side of the apartment.

I reach into the laundry basket and toss him a warm, fresh towel. He catches it gratefully and holds it against his chest as he shivers. Poor baby.

“Go take that shower,” I order him. “We’ll talk more when you get out.”

While Z is dousing himself with the hottest water the human body can take, I run down and—for the second time this week—throw his clothes in the dryer. Then I go back upstairs and try to figure out what I can feed the guy. After that kind of exposure, he needs calories and lots of them. Unfortunately, my very limited pantry doesn’t have much. And what it does have is pretty much chick food—some apples, half a box of cereal, some peanut butter. Nothing, I’m sure, that would appeal to a twenty-one-year-old male athlete.

I do have some leftovers from dinner the night before last—Chinese food—so I dump it on a couple of plates and heat it up in the microwave.

By the time it’s ready, Z is out of the shower and lounging on my bed, dressed in nothing but the fluffy hot-pink robe I picked up on clearance last year. I’m not sure what it says about either one of us that it looks better on him than it ever did on me.

He sits up when he sees me, but stays on the bed. I don’t know if that’s because he wants to give me space and that’s pretty much the farthest he can get away from me and still be in the room or if it’s just because he’s a shit and he wants to remind me of everything we’ve done on that bed in the last two days.

If that’s his goal, it’s working. Because, pink fluffy robe or not, all I see is Z kneeling between my legs, his eyes dark and intense as he goes down on me. The memory has me blushing, and I can tell he notices because he straightens up, his eyes going sharp with purpose.

Plus there’s an awareness in the room, an electricity that seems to permeate the air whenever we’re in the same place. I’ve felt it every time we’re together, and this morning is no different. In fact, right now the pull is so powerful that it’s all I can do not to climb on and take him inside me.

But what happened yesterday hasn’t been resolved—I’m not sure it can be resolved—and I decide that until it is, I’m staying safely on my side of the room.

That’s when Z—fucking gorgeous, sexy, irresistible Z—holds out a hand to me and says, “Come here.”

I start to do just that, my body so enthralled by him that it responds without conscious instruction from my brain. I take three full steps before I manage to stop myself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I do.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Of course you do. But that’s not exactly the point, is it?”

“I guess not.” He sits up then. “Why were you doing laundry at four in the morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Why were you wandering the halls here at four in the morning?”

“I couldn’t get you out of my mind, so I went for a walk.” He tries to say it like it doesn’t matter, but I can see the vulnerability in his eyes, and it gets to me even though I shouldn’t let it. “I ended up here.”

“A walk?” I eye him skeptically. “A walk doesn’t end up with you soaking wet like that.”

He shrugs. “Maybe it was more of a hike.”

“You think so?” My sarcasm is out in full form today, but after those videos I’ve seen of him, all I can picture is him scaling the side of a mountain in the middle of the night. The thought terrifies me.

“That’s not important.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Why?” he asks, and for the first time he looks totally exasperated. “Why does it matter how I got here as long as I got here? Can we at least talk about what’s got you so upset?”

“Somehow you’ve never struck me as the talking type.”

“I’m not the talking type. Which should tell you everything you need to know about me being here. I l—” My heart drops to my toes at the first sound of that l. He regroups though, and says, “I like you, Ophelia. I really like you, and that’s not something I say very often, either. So can we please just talk?”

I don’t want to.

I really, really don’t want to.

I’ve only just started to truly heal from everything that happened in New Orleans, from everything that happened to Remi and me, and the last thing I want to do is rip the scab off it now. But at the same time, I know that Z’s right. That I owe him as much. Because he likes me and is good to me and, most important, because I really like him, too.

“I heated up some food from the other night,” I tell him, trying to buy some time while I get my thoughts in order. “Why don’t you come get a plate?”

“Seriously?” He climbs off the bed and stalks toward me. It’s a total testament to his masculinity that not only can he pull off the stalk while wearing a hot-pink bathrobe, but he can actually look threatening doing it. “I pour my heart out to you and you offer me Chinese food?”

“In my defense, it’s really good Chinese food.”

He doesn’t so much as crack a smile at my joke. He just looks at me, and it’s like those crazy beautiful eyes of his can see inside me. More, it’s like they’re letting me see inside him for the first time. And I realize, suddenly, that I hurt him. Not with the Chinese food, but by shutting him out earlier when I had my little freak-out.

And while I can handle him being annoyed with me or angry at me or even indifferent to me, I can’t stand the idea that he might be hurt by me. By something I’ve done. So I forget about trying to get the words right and settle for just getting the words out.

“You were right, earlier. You know, when you said you were paying for things that Remi had done. I don’t think I realized it, but I’ve totally been measuring you against him.”

“Let me guess.” His mouth twists in a sardonic little smile that might have hurt me if I hadn’t had my flash of insight a minute ago and realized that all he’s doing is trying to keep me from hurting him any more than I already have. “I didn’t measure up.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“You don’t have to lie, Ophelia. I’ll always prefer that you tell me the truth rather than what you think I want to hear.”

“Then you need to listen to what the truth is instead of always jumping to the worst conclusions about yourself.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. I’ve known you a week and I’ve heard you do it seven or eight times already. I bet if I ask Ash or Cam they’d be able to point out a million other times when you think the worst of yourself and try to get other people to as well.”

He shifts a little, looks to the side of me instead of into my eyes, and I realize that I’ve really hit a nerve, which ends up freaking me out. What kind of a life has Z led that it’s so much easier for him to believe, really believe, the bad stuff instead of the good?

God. I sigh heavily and decide to go back to picking my words with care. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought it would be, and it’s not like I ever thought it’d be easy.

“Come here,” I tell him, walking back toward the bed and holding a hand out for him to join me.

He does as I ask, settling on the bed, and I curl up on his lap with my arms around his waist and my head on his chest. His heart is pounding fast and hard, and again I realize he really is just as nervous as I am.

“I met Remi when I was fifteen and he was seventeen,” I say, deciding it’s better to get it over with fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “I fell for him instantly. It was hard not to, when he was pretty much every teenage girl’s walking wet dream.”

Z nods, and he looks as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “I know the type.”

I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he demands, offended.

“Of course you know the type!” I say, in between giggles. “You’re pretty much the king of it. All badass and gorgeous, with a dirty mouth and a surprisingly soft heart underneath all those tattoos and piercings. Yeah, you definitely know the type.”

He lifts a brow, half amused, half insulted. “I’m not quite sure that’s how I’d describe myself.”

“Trust me, it’s probably the best description of you that’s ever been given.” I pause, pretend to think. “Maybe I should call up Sports Illustrated and make sure they’ve got it for the article.”

He tugs at one of my curls, frowning. At first I think he’s going to argue, but then I guess he decides to focus on what’s important, because he asks, “So, Remi wasn’t one of those clean-cut college boys with his whole life mapped out in front of him?”

“God, no. Remi was a drag racer.”

“A drag racer? You dated a drag racer?”

“Yep. And a damn good one at that. Up until two days ago, he taught me everything I knew about driving.”

“A drag racer,” he says again, like he can’t get his head around it.

“Why do you look so surprised?” I demand. “I’m dating a snowboarder, aren’t I? The two aren’t that different.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” he asks. “Dating?”

I freeze, afraid I’ve put my foot in it. “I don’t know,” I tell him as I pick some fuzz off his/my bathrobe. “What do you think we’re doing?”

He puts two fingers under my chin and presses up until I have no choice but to look him in the eye. “Since I’m not the one who slammed a door in your face after telling you to get lost today, I think I’m probably not the one deciding things.”

I knew he’d call me on my shit sooner or later, and I just nod. But I look away when I admit, “I’m scared, Z. I’m really scared.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. Being vulnerable is not something I’ve ever enjoyed.

“I get it. You were in an accident with Remi and you saw him die, nearly died yourself. Of course you’d be nervous—”

“Remi had a death wish.”

He freezes midsentence, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “What did you say?”

“He had a death wish. I wouldn’t call him actively suicidal, but he was an adrenaline junkie with a really rough past. At first I thought that was all it was. That he took things too far sometimes, looking for the rush, and bad shit happened.”

Z shifts beneath me, obviously uncomfortable all of a sudden. And that’s when I know that I’m right. That what I saw on those videos wasn’t accidental. It breaks my heart even as it gives me the strength to continue.

“But then I started noticing a pattern, you know? We were together three years, and there were definitely times when he was less careful, more stupid about what he did. Which car he’d drive, how he’d drive it.

“I’d try to talk to him about it, and he always told me I was making a big deal out of nothing. That he was fine, and could he help it if he was always looking for the next big rush?”

I pause now, caught up in the memories despite myself. I loved Remi, I really did, and part of me will always miss him. But there’s another part of me, one I don’t acknowledge very often because it does no good, that’s angry at him. Furious. Because he took the easy way out and left me holding the bag.

“You don’t—you don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to.” Z sounds sincere, but I can sense the tension in his body and know that every second I delay is only making the telling of this story worse for him.

I also know he recognizes himself in it, can tell from the way he’s sitting rigid, and from the way his hands are clenched in the comforter instead of around me. My heart breaks at the knowledge, more proof that Z is like Remi in all the ways I need him not to be.

“It was December, which in New Orleans is nothing like it is here. Half the time it’s still in the seventies or eighties and humid as hell. December was always a bad month for him. I don’t know why—he never told me. But the longer the month dragged on, the crazier the stunts he pulled would become. Everyone else loved it, because they didn’t understand. They just thought he was wild and fun, and so much of what he did worked out the best possible way—because he was so talented, you know? I’ve never met anyone who could drive a car the way he could.

“Anyway, it was December twentieth and I could totally see the tension building in him. He was just snappier than usual, you know? And the stuff he was doing, the races he was driving, the risks he was taking … they were trouble. Not just dangerous, but dangerous.

“So he gets this race. Two in the morning, across the Huey Long Bridge and back. And he takes it. He fucking takes it. It was total suicide, especially since the guy he was driving against was really bad news, you know? He won, a lot, but he won because he drove dirty. No one could prove it, but we all knew it. Despite that, he’d never been able to beat Remi before. It pissed him off.

“I begged Remi not to take the race, because I knew he was going to go balls to the wall with it. He’d do anything to beat Kye. Anything. And that bridge is so narrow, so tight, it gives no room for mistakes even if you’re driving the speed limit. Going faster … I was terrified he was going to end up killing himself.”

“So you got in the car with him.” Z’s voice has no inflection at all, no blame, no judgment. But his jaw is locked up tight, and his hands … let’s just say my comforter is never going to be the same.

“It was stupid on my part. But I thought—” I break off, sigh loudly. “I don’t know what I thought, honestly.”

“You thought if you were there you could keep him from doing something totally stupid. You thought you could save his life.”

I nod, because he’s right. “That’s exactly what I thought. Remi had always been pretty protective of me. Not like you, but still. He took good care of me, and it never occurred to me that that wouldn’t matter. That he wanted to die more than he cared if I lived.”

I shake my head, start to close my eyes, but when I do I can see the wreck, hear the crunch of metal. Feel the drop, then the cool rush of water.

“You know, that’s the worst part,” I went on.

“That he tried to kill you too?” His voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it.

“That I’ll never know if he did or if he just lost control. We had the race. We had it. We’d already done most of the course—the bridge, the neighborhood on the other side. All we had to do was get back across the bridge. Remi had it. I knew he had it. I could feel it. Kye wasn’t even close to us. And then, suddenly, Remi just jerks the wheel to the right. We go flying and …

“He drowned. I mean, he was really badly injured, so he might not have made it anyway. But he was trapped in the car and the water was coming in too fast. I couldn’t get him out—”

“Wait a minute. You went off the bridge with him? You were trapped in that car in the fucking Mississippi River?” Z’s hands are on my shoulders now, his face in mine, his eyes livid with so many emotions I can’t even begin to sort them all out. “He went off the bridge with you in that car with him?”

“Most days I don’t think it was on purpose.”

“Jesus Christ, Ophelia. Jesus Christ.” He pulls me to his chest, holds me so tight I can barely breathe. But I don’t complain because it turns out this is what I needed all along—even though I didn’t know it.

For so long friends back home have blamed me—for getting in the car, for letting Remi drive that race, for not doing more to stop him. Oh, they never come right out and say it, but I can hear it in their voices, see it when they look at me. They don’t understand I was doing everything I could to save him. All they know is that he’s dead, and they think that by going with him, I encouraged him to wreck.

I don’t know—maybe there’s a part of me that thinks the same thing.

But not Z. He’s swearing under his breath, slowly, steadily, furiously. Not at me, but for me. I find myself sinking even more into him. It feels so good to be held like this, like I’m the most precious thing in the world. Remi never held me like that, and neither has anyone else. Ever.

Because he’s there, and because I can, I wrap my arms around him just as tightly. And hold on with everything I’ve got.

Chapter 21

Z

Motherfucker.

Bastard.

Goddamned son of a motherfucking bitch. If Remi was in front of me right now, I’d kill the asshole myself. Slowly. Painfully. Deliberately, so that he knew I meant it.

What the hell was he thinking? What the hell was he thinking?

Letting Ophelia get in that car with him? Racing with her when he knew how fucking dangerous it was? Fucking crashing that car with her in it? Totally irrational though it is, it’s killing me that he’s already dead. That I can’t tear the motherfucker limb from fucking limb.

I need to walk, need to move. Need to do something before the top of my head actually blows the fuck off. But there’s Ophelia to think of. Ophelia, who he never thought of, is curled up in my arms, her whole body wrapped around mine.

I don’t think she realizes that she’s shaking, her body trembling so violently that she’s actually moving the bed. I pull her closer, wrap my arms around her more tightly … and that’s when I realize. She’s not the one who’s shaking.

I am.

Goddamn fucking son-of-a-bitch motherfucking shithead. How could he do that to her? How could he tell her he loved her and then do that to her? I’ve seen her scars. I’ve touched and kissed and caressed them. I know how badly she was injured, and to think that some fucker with a death wish did that to her … I just can’t understand.

I may be on the brink of self-destructing, but if it happens, there’s no way I’m taking anybody with me. No way I’ll ever take the chance of hurting someone I care about again. Remi should have known better. He should have fucking known better. If you have a girl like Ophelia, you protect her. You don’t fucking put her in the line of fire. You fucking treasure her.

Bastard.

The need to kick the shit out of something is riding me hard, as is the red haze of fury that’s all I can see. All I can think about. But that isn’t what she needs from me right now. No matter how much I want to rage. No matter how much I want to go back in time and kick that motherfucker’s ass, I need to rein it in. Because Ophelia trusted me with something here. She told me why she’s scared, and now it’s my job to hold her and comfort her and make her unafraid. I may not know much about relationships, but I know that.

The only problem is, I don’t know how to do it. I’ve never comforted anybody in my life. Never even thought about it. But she needs it from me, so I’m going to fucking figure it out. Right here. Right now. I refuse to be just another asshole who let her down.

Not sure what else to do, I run a gentle hand down her back, stroke my fingers through her hair. Press my mouth against her ear and whisper a bunch of nonsense words that don’t seem to make much sense except that they soothe her. She relaxes against me, and I can feel her heartbeat finally start to settle as she cuddles even closer.

I want to hold her like this forever. Want to take away all the pain and bullshit she’s had to go through in the past and just make it all okay. She deserves more than what that bastard did to her, deserves so much more than the hand she’s been dealt.

Hell, she deserves so much more than me—a selfish prick who spends too much time playing around with his own fucking death wish. But that’s just too damn bad because I’m not going to give her up. It’s obvious she has ridiculously fucked-up taste in guys—present company totally included—so it’s not like I can turn her loose on the world and hope she ends up okay. Because she obviously won’t. Which means I’m going to have to do something more. I’m going to have to be something better. Because Ophelia fucking deserves it. She fucking deserves everything.

“That’s why I sent you away today,” she tells me, like I haven’t figured that much out already. “I saw that video and I just freaked out. It was like looking at Remi right before he died. All confidence and wildness and total commitment. You ride the line like he does, in the spot so narrow that life and death start to blend together.”

I clear my throat, start to answer. But what can I say? She’s right. We both know she’s right.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re not him. I know I shouldn’t compare you, but I watched so many videos of you tonight. Saw you doing so amazingly well and then just throwing it all away. Again and again and—”

“I love you.” The words slip out before I even know I’m going to say them. But once they’re out, I don’t want to take them back, because they’re true. Somehow, some way, I’ve managed to fall in love with this beautiful, beautiful girl when I didn’t think it was possible for me to love anyone. Ever.

“What did you say?” she asks after a minute, her voice broken and pupils blown wide with shock.

“I said I love you. And I’m sorry I’m such a fucking asshole.”

“You’re not.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I am. It’s just that since my—” I break off, not sure I’m ready to go there yet. Not sure I’ll ever be ready to go there.

“I know about your sister.”

“You do?” Shit. How? Did Cam tell her when she told her about the bet? Or Ash, maybe? My fucking heart feels like it’s going to pound right out of my chest, and I swear I’m about two seconds from passing out like a total pussy.

“I’m sorry she and your mother died.”

Oh, right. She knows the sanitized version, the PR version that Mitch has made sure circulated ever since I became a pro snowboarder. She doesn’t know the real truth. If she did, she’d probably be running away from me as fast as she fucking could. One destructive son of a bitch in her life is obviously enough.

If I were a better man, I’d tell her. Just so she’d know what she’s getting herself into. But I’m not and I’ve never claimed to be, so I don’t say another fucking word. Instead I put my mouth to better use.

Her lips open under mine like they were meant for me, her tongue stroking along my own as I explore the recesses of her mouth. She tastes so good, like caramel and coffee and sweet, sweet whipped cream. I nibble at her upper lip, suck it between mine. Laugh a little as she gasps and trembles against me. If I could, I’d stay here forever. Right here, at this moment, with my girl in my arms and the nightmares still and silent within me.

Desperate for more of her, for all of her, I deepen the kiss. I run my tongue along the roof of her mouth, play with the almost imperceptible gap where one of her teeth is just a tiny bit crooked. Then, because I can—because she’s mine—I run my tongue under hers and play with her frenulum.

She gasps, trembles, her hands clutching at my shirt to pull me closer. “What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.” Her head falls back on a moan as I do it a second and then a third time.

I’ve just started sucking on her lower lip, nipping at it and then soothing the little sting with my tongue, when she pulls away.

“What’s wrong, baby? What do you need?”

She looks me straight in the eye. “I know it’s only been a few days, but I need to tell you. I love you, too, Z.”

Her words hit me with the power of a sledgehammer, even as I tell myself not to believe them. That she’s just trying to be nice. That she doesn’t want to leave me hanging. “You don’t have to say that.”

“Yes, I do.” She grabs my face between her hands and plants a fierce kiss on my mouth. “Because it’s true.”

“How can it be? I’m—” A loser. A bastard. A fuck-up who can’t be trusted with anything. I’m a drunk and a manwhore and all the other things people say about me, not to mention a bunch of things they don’t. I know it. I’ve always known it. Why doesn’t she?

I open my mouth, start to say it to her. I need to say it to her—she has a right to know—but I just can’t. Because if I say it, then she’ll leave, just like everybody else. Everybody but Luc and Cam and Ash. And I can’t let her go. Not now. Not yet.

“You’re a pain in the ass, is what you are,” she tells me in between pressing kisses down my neck. “Too arrogant. Too talented. Too used to getting your own way. Too impulsive. Too handsome. Too protective.” She shakes her head, then kisses me right behind the ear. “Too kind. Who the hell knows what I see in you.”

She starts to pull away, but I cup the back of her head and press her mouth back down to my throat for more kisses. “I think you might have me confused with somebody else.”

“No, I’m pretty sure you’re the only egomaniac around here.”

“Wow, don’t hold back,” I tell her on a surprised laugh. Then I tug at her hair until she lifts her head so I can drop kisses along her jawline. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“How I really feel? I started falling for you about sixty seconds after I dumped that cup of coffee on your pants.”

I grin, because that might actually be my favorite memory of all time. “It was the abs, wasn’t it?”

She rolls her eyes. “God, you’re so arrogant. No, it wasn’t the abs. It was the way you laughed. I’d just dumped a drink on you in front of everyone, and you weren’t even mad. You just laughed and kept flirting with me. It was … nice.”

“Nice, huh?” I roll her beneath me. “You know what else is nice?”

“What?” she asks, and she’s a little breathless now—exactly the way I like her.

I push her sweater back, pull her tank top out of the waistband of her yoga pants, and shove it up, up, up until her breasts are right there in my face. All full and gorgeous and rosy-tipped. “This.”

I bend my head, lick my tongue over and around one sweet nipple. Then I blow on it, letting the combination of warm tongue and cool air send heat spiraling through her. It must work, because she thrusts her hands into my hair and arches beneath me, pressing her breast against my mouth. Exactly where I like it.

“More,” she murmurs, and the sound—so husky and aroused—shoots straight to my dick.

I give her more, sucking her nipple into my mouth and running my tongue over it hard, the way I’ve learned she likes. Ophelia moans and pulls me closer and I’m again faced with the knowledge that being with her turns me into a green kid with no chance of controlling his own body. If she moves her hips, if she so much as rubs her pussy against my dick, I’m done for.

With that thought in mind, I ease her off my lap, settle her on the bed. She moans a little, clutches at me, so I trail soft kisses over her breasts and down her stomach in an effort to soothe her. And to calm myself down.

It doesn’t work. She’s so gorgeous lying there, her soft, fragrant skin silky to my touch, that it only ratchets up my need until it’s a pounding in my blood. In my head. In my heart.

I love her.

I love this girl.

The words and the knowledge of what they mean—what they really mean—work their way through me. They make the desperate need I have to be inside her, to feel her pussy clench around me, only more feral. And, strangely enough, more tender, too.

Yes, I want to fuck her. To plunge inside her and take everything she has to give me. But at the same time I want nothing more than to protect her, to care for her, in whatever ways she’ll let me.

“Z, please,” she murmurs, her hands tugging at my hair, my shoulders. “I need—” Her voice breaks.

“I’ve got you, baby,” I whisper against her stomach as I slide onto the floor at the end of the bed. “I’ve got you.”

The import of those words hits me for the first time, makes my hands shake as I reach for her pajama bottoms and slip them gently down her legs. She’s mine. Ophelia’s mine.

For a second—just a second—tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them away before she can see what a total fucking pussy I’m turning into, but the overwhelming feelings that caused the tears remain. I can barely breathe, barely think, through the need, the joy, the absolute terror that comes with loving her like this.

She must sense the crazy maelstrom inside me, or maybe I’m just doing a bad fucking job of hiding how fucking overwhelmed I am right now. Either way, Ophelia knows—she always knows—and she slips through my arms and onto the ground in front of me.

We’re kneeling now, our faces inches apart, her eyes looking into mine, her chest to my chest, and it’s the most intense moment of my crazy, fucked-up life. For a second I think about looking away, but she won’t let me. Those gorgeous green eyes of hers are holding mine, and I can’t look away.

“I’ve got you, too, Z,” she says, cupping my face in her hands. “I promise. I’ve got you, too.”

And then she’s kissing me, her lips moving over mine with an intensity that erases from between us everything and everyone that came before.

The kiss goes on forever, and by the time it ends, we’re both frantic. Both frenzied. She’s shoving at the robe, knocking it off my shoulders while I tear at her pajama top, ripping the buttons clean off in my desperate rush to be skin to skin.

Then she’s shoving me down onto the floor and climbing over me. “I need you,” she pants as she settles herself directly over my cock. “I need—”

We both moan as she slides over me, takes me inside her. I’ve never been with a girl like this before, never been inside anyone without a condom, and it feels amazing. For one long second I close my eyes and shudder as she lifts and lowers herself on top of me. I want to stay here, right here, like this forever. Want to drown in Ophelia and the wet heat of her that feels better than anything ever has or ever will.

But she’s my girl and I have to protect her. Have to take care of her. Though it nearly fucking kills me, I grab her hips in my hands, still her frantic motions.

“No!” she wails as she moves desperately against me. “Please—”

“Condom,” I gasp, cursing my goddamned jacket for being all the way across the fucking room. And still as I separate us, as I prepare to lunge for it, I can’t stop myself from cupping her breasts and running my thumbs over her gorgeously hard nipples.

“I’m on the pill,” she says desperately, her body moving against mine. “I have been for three years.”

The pill. Oh thank God.

I’ve never trusted a girl before when she’s said that. But none of those girls were Ophelia. None of them were mine. I lift her by the hips, position her over me once more. But I have to ask, just to be certain she’s really okay with this. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes. Z!” She’s practically sobbing now, her hands grabbing my biceps so hard that her fingernails dig into my muscles.

The little pinch of pain is the last straw. It sends me right over the edge of sanity and, clenches around me.

Ophelia gasps and I freeze, terrified for a moment that I’ve hurt her. That I’ve been too rough. Goddamnit. I know better—

But then she’s moving, her hips lifting and lowering on me in a rhythm that has my eyes crossing and my breath coming in harsh, jagged pants. She’s close already. I can hear it in the way her breath catches in her throat, feel it in the way she’s trembling all around me. Thank God, because I don’t think I can last long. Not now, when she feels like this around me.

I lift a hand to her breast, squeeze her nipple between my thumb and index finger. She moans, a strangled little sound deep in her throat that sets on end every nerve ending I’ve got. The need to come is a wild blizzard inside me, the only thing holding me back the need I have to make sure she gets off, too.

I bring my other hand to her sweet pussy, rub circles around her clit with my thumb as she shudders and shakes. She leans forward, angling her body so that I hit a different spot inside her. The shift in position has her whimpering and me cursing as all the heat and need and pleasure—fuck, the overwhelming pleasure—whip through us.

And then she’s coming, her slick heat clenching around me in a rhythm that strips away the last tiny bit of control I’ve got. I grab her hips, thrust into her once, twice. Then I’m coming, too, orgasm rolling over me like an avalanche, burying me in pleasure so intense it’s pain. Burying me in satisfaction. Burying me in love, until Ophelia is all I can see or feel or taste. Until she’s inside me as surely as I’m still inside her.

She collapses on top of me, and for long seconds, minutes, we do nothing but lie tangled together as we try desperately to catch our breaths.

“I lied,” she murmurs when our heartbeats are finally back to normal. She’s curled against me on her narrow bed, the comforter tucked tightly around us.

My stomach jolts like I’ve just missed the best trick of my run. “About what?” I try not to sound as desperate as I feel.

Her face is pressed against my chest, and I can feel her lips curve up into a smile. “It was a little bit about the abs.”

The tension leaves me on a laugh, and I pull her closer, until her heart is pressed to mine. “I knew it.”

“Well, in my defense,” she says as her hands slide over the area in question, “they’re really good abs.”

Chapter 22

Ophelia

My phone vibrates as I’m serving two lattes, and I shoot a quick glance over my shoulder at Melanie, the girl I’m working with. I signal that I’m taking my break, and she nods at me. I’ve been waiting for this call from Z for what feels like forever.

“Hi,” I answer as I step outside, trying to ignore the fact that it’s even colder now than when I came to work this morning.

“Hey, baby. You sound like you’re freezing.”

“I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I now live in the arctic.”

“I think you’re confused. The arctic’s a few hundred miles north of Park City.”

“Yeah, well, you couldn’t prove it by me.”

He makes a sympathetic noise. “It’ll be better next year, once your blood thickens up a little bit.”

“God, I hope so. Because it couldn’t get worse.”

“Really? It couldn’t get worse?”

He’s teasing, but I can hear a little bit of worry behind the joking, so I clarify, “The weather, not Park City.”

He laughs, so I change the subject. “How’s Aspen?”

“Colder than Park City,” he tells me. “Did you pack enough layers?”

“I think so. My aunt helped me pack, so I should be good to go.”

“I can’t wait to see you. I miss you like crazy.”

I can’t help rolling my eyes even though he’s not there to see it. “You’ve only been gone two days, Z. I think you can handle it.”

“I thought I could, too, but it turns out I’ve gotten used to you in my bed.”

It’s funny, because I’ve gotten used to him, too. We’ve only been together—really together—for ten days, but it feels longer. Like it’s finally right. Which seems crazy considering this is Z I’m talking about, but it’s true. He’s been amazing. Like the perfect boyfriend, all concerned and interested and supportive. He even drove into Salt Lake City and came back with some pamphlets from the colleges there. He’s lobbying hard for me to stay in Park City at the end of the season, and while two weeks ago that never even would have been an option, now I can’t imagine being somewhere else. Somewhere that he isn’t.

“Those are big words coming from a guy who used to sneak out the second his date fell asleep.”

“Hey! I thought we agreed you weren’t going to listen to any more rumors about me.”

“I’m not listening to rumors, baby. What I hear around here is pure truth.” I can’t keep the grin from my voice. He gets so flustered when I bring up his past, which I think is hilarious. It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting into when I started dating him, after all. I even know about Stacy, the redheaded octopus, staying the night in his bed. And while that one stings a little bit, it’s not like I can blame him for it. We weren’t dating at the time, and I had pretty much emasculated him as I sent him out the door. And he didn’t even sleep with her, which is both shocking and a little charming, knowing what I do about him.

“So, when are you leaving?”

It’s such a blatant subject change that I can’t help laughing. But I go with it because as fun as it is to mess with Z, it’s more fun to hear his voice go all low and sweet and gravelly when he talks to me. “I get off work in an hour. We’re heading out right after.”

“You’re coming up with Ash’s parents, right?”

“And his brother, yes.” I might be more confident driving around here, but there’s no way I’m driving seven hours through the snowy mountains that are between here and Aspen. “Thanks for setting that up. His family seems great.”

“They are great. His parents are the only reason I even made it through high school.”

“What do you mean?”

But I already know he’s not going to answer. The noise in the background has suddenly gotten a lot worse, which means he’s just gotten off the ski lift. Amazing how ten days of being with Z has turned me into an expert at all the different sounds on the mountain. Not to mention the different snowboarding tricks.

“I got to go, baby. I’ve got one guy in front of me and then it’s my turn to throw down another practice run.”

Nerves flutter in my tummy, but I ignore them. Z’s a snowboarder, has been all his life, and being with him means dealing with it. Which is fine, I remind myself, as long as he doesn’t do anything colossally stupid. I’m prepared for crazy—this is Z, after all—but not for blatantly suicidal. So far he’s been keeping up his end of the bargain, which means I have to keep up mine not to worry over every little thing.

“Have fun!” I tell him. “Spin around a bunch of times.”

He groans. “You know, you’re really going to have to learn the terms. Because ‘spin around a bunch of times’ just isn’t cutting it.”

Which is one of the reasons I keep saying it, even now that I do know many of the terms. Messing with him is entirely too much fun. “So what should I say?”

“You should say ‘barge your run,’ or ‘have a sick ride.’ ”

“Okay. Have a sick ride.”

“You too. I’ll see you in about eight hours.”

I laugh. “We might have to stop to eat, you know. Or pee or something.”

He sighs. “Fine. Nine hours. But not one minute later.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good,” he says with a slightly wicked laugh. “And once you get here, we’ll see what I can do.”

It’s my turn to groan. “Good-bye, Z.”

“Bye, Ophelia. I love you.”

My heart stops for a second before starting to beat double time. He says it all the time, every time we talk, and it still gets to me. Still turns me inside out. I’m beginning to think it always will. “I love you, too.”

The last hour of work drags, partly because it’s lunchtime and everyone’s at the restaurant and partly because I’m watching the clock, waiting to get on the road. Ash’s parents, Gemma and Todd, show up with his fourteen-year-old brother, Logan, about half an hour before I’m supposed to get off, so I set them up with some coffees and start counting down the seconds.

I can’t believe how excited I am. Not just about seeing Z, which will be fun, but it really has only been two days since I saw him last. But about seeing a real live snowboarding competition that he and Ash and Luc are all competing in. And Cam—Cam’ll be competing in the women’s segments, which I’m just as excited to watch.

I’ve caught snowboarding competitions on TV sometimes, usually around the X Games or the Olympics, but I’ve never actually had a vested interest in one before. Never known anyone who was involved or watched them practice their tricks beforehand.

Z’s done nothing but practice this last week and a half. Well, practice and hang out with me. But I’ve been out with him a couple of times, and though the things he does freak me out on a regular basis, I know he could be doing things that are a lot worse. Like throwing himself off a mountain or not being smart about the tricks he practices.

Ash says they’ve got this, that there’s a chance they’ll all place in the top ten, which would be totally wicked. Admittedly, I’m pulling hardest for Z. Between all the press and added sponsorships that came pouring in after that backcountry run and how much he’s been practicing lately, I really want him to do well. Really want him to see that it’s okay for things to go well for him.

The clock that refuses to move finally strikes one, and I all but run to the employee break room, where I’ve been storing my overnight bag. And then we’re on the road, Gemma, Todd, Logan, and me, laughing and chattering about the boys like we’re old friends. Logan’s actually really cool for a fourteen-year-old and we spend much of the trip talking about music and movies and—of course—snowboarding.

Turns out he’s determined to follow in his big brother’s footsteps. Which is no surprise. I’ve only been hanging out with Z’s friends for a couple of weeks and already I can tell what a great guy Ash is. Not as great as Z, obviously, but still pretty awesome.

“I’m so glad you and Z are dating,” Gemma tells me a few hours into the trip, when we stop for snacks and gas. “I’ve known that boy since he was five, and I have never seen him happier than he is with you right now.”

“Never?” I ask her, wondering what he was like before his mom and sister died.

“Never,” she tells me firmly as we walk back to the car. “If you ask me, things were always a little off in that poor boy’s house, even before everything happened. The way his father reacted only proves my point.”

“His father?” I ask. Z almost never mentions his dad, and the few times I’ve gotten up the nerve to ask about the man, he always deflects. Which is just weird. My mom and I aren’t super close, but still we talk every couple of days and I’ve told Z all about her.

Gemma makes a rude noise. “A bigger son of a bitch has never walked the planet,” she tells me. “That man is a selfish monster, one who has put himself and his own grief above that of a young boy for too many years. I can’t even imagine where poor Z would have ended up if he didn’t have snowboarding and Luc, Cam, and Ash.”

“Actually, he told me just this morning that he thinks you and your husband are responsible for him turning out as well as he has.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and though she blinks them away quickly enough, I can see how much my words—Z’s words—have affected her. “I love that boy as much as if he was my own son. And I hate what he’s been through.”

I know it’s low, but Z never talks about his family, and certainly never talks about how his mom and sister died. I really want to know—not out of idle curiosity, but because the last thing I want is to do or say something that might hurt him out of ignorance.

But Todd and Logan finish pumping gas and climb back into the car before I can ask, and then, as the three of them chatter about what snacks she bought, the moment slips away. I refuse to let it go completely, though. Sometime soon somebody is going to need to tell me about Z’s past. I want it to be him, but at this point I’m okay with hearing it from somebody else. As long as I know how to avoid hurting him, the source doesn’t matter.

* * *

It’s complete pandemonium when we pull up to the resort where the competition is taking place. There are reporters and snowboarders and fans everywhere, along with some pretty famous faces—both in the sport and outside it—who are there for the event. I text Z as we pull up to the valet parking, and by the time we get our luggage and walk into the hotel, he’s there.

“Ophelia!” He swoops me up into his arms and gives me a kiss that would probably be more appropriate if we’d been separated for two months instead of two days. All around us, flashes go off, and when he finally pulls away and I can think again, I realize that there are a lot of press people standing around with their cameras all focused on Z and me.

“Who’s your girl, Z?” one of the reporters calls.

“Can we get another picture?” someone else yells.

“Just one more? One more!”

Z ignores them all as he wraps his left arm around my shoulder and pulls me against his side. He quickly shakes Todd’s hand, drops a kiss on Gemma’s cheek, and murmurs a quick thank-you to them as he bumps fists with Logan.

Gemma’s eyes are wide as she surveys the crowd. “Wow. This is intense.”

Z shrugs, looks uncomfortable. “It’s just Olympic stuff.”

She looks at him knowingly. “More like it’s just you.”

“And Ash. He can’t move without being mobbed. It’s been nuts since we got here.” He gives her a quick hug. “Thanks again for bringing Ophelia. I appreciate it.”

“No problem at all,” Todd says. “Now, any idea where we can find our son?”

“I think he’s in his room, 927.” He whispers the number, and I can see why. The last thing they need is for the mass of people around us to get ahold of their room numbers.

“Great. We’ll head up after we register.”

Z nods, then pulls me closer as we prepare to make a run for it.

“Is it always like this?” I whisper to him a couple of minutes later as he cuts a swath through the crowd for us. I manage a last wave at Gemma and Todd before Z sweeps me into an elevator and away from the crowd.

“Sorry. I should have warned you. Things have been really crazy for me this time around. With Olympic trials starting in a couple of weeks and that stupid fucking video, it’s like every reporter in the country wants a sit-down with me.”

“So, are you sitting down with them?”

The look he shoots me is pure Z, all arrogance and disdain mixed with just a hint of vulnerability. “Does it look like I’m sitting down with them? I have better things to do.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” We step off when the elevator gets to top floor. Looks like Z really is moving up in his sponsors’ esteem.

We barely get three feet off the elevator before more flashes go off. And then suddenly we’re surrounded by people shoving cell phones and cameras in our faces. Fans, I realize, as Z doesn’t go off the way I expect him to. Not reporters this time, but fans who just want to meet or talk to or get a selfie with Z.

It’s crazy. I mean, in Park City people talk about him all the time, but rarely does anyone try to take a picture with him. Here, it’s like he really is a celebrity. Everyone wants an autograph, everyone wants a picture and a minute to talk to him.

I’m so shocked that I just stand there like an idiot as the crowd ebbs and flows around me. I end up getting jostled and bumped some, and that’s what finally pulls me out of my surprised stupor.

Z handles it all like a pro, however, and I can’t help wondering if this happens to him at every competition or if it’s new and he’s just had time to get used to it since he’s been here a couple of days already.

Either way, he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me out of the ever-growing crowd. Right now there are about thirty-five people around us, but as the elevator dings and lets a bunch more people out—all of whom seem to be here for Z—I realize that this thing can blow up really quickly.

It freaks me out a little, and I move closer to Z until I’m pressed right up against him. He tightens his arm around me, then leans down and murmurs, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

“If you can all just give me a minute,” he tells the crowd. “Let me get my girlfriend settled in the room and then I’ll come back out and sign. I promise.”

He has to say it a few times, but it finally seems to get through to people and they clear a path so that we can get through. Z stops about halfway down the hall and scans a keycard before pushing the door open. Then we’re inside what turns out to be a really nice suite, and I’m staring at him, wide-eyed, as everything that’s just happened kind of rolls over me.

“Is that normal?” I demand, whispering, though I’m not sure why. “Is it always like this when you leave Park City?”

He grimaces. “No. This is all because of that damn video—I swear, part of me wants to strangle Ash for this bullshit. I mean, sure, when I’m competing there are always some fans who want to talk to me or who want an autograph, but I’ve never been stalked through a hotel before.”

He sets my bag on the luggage rack, then walks over to the small fridge in the bar area, pulls out a Dr Pepper, and hands it to me. “Here. I got these for you, along with a couple of bags of red licorice and some apples.”

My heart just melts a little more, along with the last of my worry about the crowd in the hall. Of course they want to meet Z. Who wouldn’t? Once you get past the attitude, he’s an amazing person.

Not to mention a really amazing boyfriend, I admit as he heads for the door after giving me another toe-curling kiss. “I’ll just sign a few autographs,” he promises as he reaches for the doorknob. “And then I’ll be back in.”

“Don’t worry about me. Sign as many as you want to. I’m going to take a shower and then I’ll be here waiting for you. Naked. In bed.”

“That’s not fair,” he tells me. “I’ve been dying for you to get here.”

“Who’s got time for fair?” I ask him with a smile. “There’s a crowd outside the door that keeps getting bigger and bigger. Considering how early morning comes around here, I figure I need to stake my claim on your time any way I can.”

He grins, then comes over and gives me yet another kiss. I end up clinging to him, head spinning and knees weak. “Believe me,” he whispers into my ear before he heads out the door, “I definitely consider your claim staked.”

I smile at him as I watch him go, because, really, what else is there to say? As I step into a hot shower a couple of minutes later, I can’t help wishing for things to stay exactly as they are right now. Because for this moment, at this time, they’re absolutely perfect.

Chapter 23

Z

She’s here. She’s really here. And yes, I’m aware that being this excited that Ophelia is with me—that she’s going to watch me and then celebrate with me later—is a total pussy move, but to be honest, I just don’t give a fuck. I’ve never, not once in my whole life, had someone in the stands who belonged to me. Who was rooting for me.

Oh, Ash’s parents have been there. So has Cam. But that’s not the same as having Ophelia, who really is here for me. Just me.

For the first time in my life, I’m going into this planning to compete, really compete. It’s strange how her being here has changed the way I approach these things. It used to be that I was here for Luc and Ash, that I competed because it was just part of the deal to hang with them and be their friend, but it was never something I was really into. Never something I wanted. And, more times than not, I’d blow it just to make sure that they did better. Not because I ever thought they needed me to, but because they’re my friends and it matters to them. Why wouldn’t I do whatever I could to help them do well?

They’re still my friends and I still want them to do well, but for the first time, I want to do well, too. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Ophelia, who has never seen me compete on a national level before.

“Hey, you guys are going to tear it up out there,” our agent, Mitch, tells Ash and me as we walk toward the lift that will take us to the top of the mountain. We’re about fifteen minutes away from the first round of slopestyle, and I’m more than ready to get started.

“We know,” Ash answers with a grin. “First and second, baby. And Luc’s going to tear it up in the half-pipe later.”

“Damn straight,” Mitch agrees. “I expect all three of you to place this time.” He looks at me hard. “No excuses. No stupid mistakes. You’ve got this.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t see. Do.” He fist-bumps me, then Ash, before walking toward the stands.

“Is he planning a new career as a motivational speaker?” I ask with a snort as we watch him go.

“He’s just excited. All his plans are coming together.”

“Don’t you mean machinations? The two of you are like mad scientists, rubbing your hands together and cackling with glee as you put together your next evil plot.”

“Hey, someone’s got to dominate the world,” Ash says with a grin. “Why shouldn’t it be us?”

“You terrify me,” I tell him with a shake of my head. “You really do.”

“Just part of the plan, man. Just part of the plan.”

We head toward the magic carpet that’ll take us straight to the starting line. As we do, I catch a glimpse of Ophelia’s hot-pink-and-purple striped beanie in the crowds. I stare at her hard, hoping she’ll turn around. She finally does, and I wave to her. I can’t see her face, but I know it’s her from the way she moves. And the way she waves back.

I can’t stop what I’m sure is a goofy grin from taking over my face.

“Seriously?” Ash says with a roll of his eyes. “That girl’s got you whipped.”

I don’t try to defend myself. How can I when he’s right? I’m turning into a total pussy about her. The thing is, I don’t give a shit.

“Why don’t you stop worrying about my love life and start worrying about your own? Oh right. Because you don’t have one.”

“Out of choice. I’m focused on the Olympics right now.”

I snort. “Yeah, which one of us is the pussy here?”

He flips me off, but I just laugh. I’m doing a lot of that lately.

“You ready to do this?” Luc asks a few minutes later, clapping me on the back as he comes up to join us.

“Hell, yeah,” I tell him, my standard answer to that question, but this time I grin when I say it. Because I mean it, and that makes the difference.

“That’s what I want to hear.” He’s jonesing for the rush. I can tell by the way he’s fidgeting, his hands checking everything again and again because he can’t just be still. I’ve been there—we all have—so I recognize the symptoms.

I knock into him with my shoulder as we walk, shoot him a grin. “You solid, man?”

He nods. “Hell, yeah, man. Let’s take this bitch so we can get on to the good stuff.”

He means the half-pipe, since that’s always been where he scores best.

As we get to the lift, there’s a section of media behind a rope line. They’re taking pictures of everyone on their way up, hoping to get some quotes, all on the chance that one of us is going to be the new winner.

Normally these competitions aren’t so media heavy, but it’s an Olympic year and this is the last major North American competition before the Dew starts—and with it, the Olympic trials. So of course everyone is watching, trying to see who stands out. Trying to put together in their heads what is going to be the next winning Olympic team.

Again, not really my thing—I’m just in it for the adrenaline—but a lot of people really fucking care about the selection. Which is why the media, the fans, and everyone else are at a fever pitch today. Well, that and the stupid video that seems to have made me big news in the snowboarding world overnight.

There’s a part of me that wishes I’d never let Ash do shit with that ride down the mountain. I wouldn’t have if I’d known it would lead to this feeding frenzy, reporters and fans and sponsors in my face all the time, all wanting something from me. And while I don’t mind talking to the fans, signing a few autographs, the media are something else entirely. As long as they stick to the boarding questions, I don’t mind. It’s when they get to the more personal stuff that it fucks me up, makes me nervous. There’s a lot of shit in my past that needs to stay in my past, and the last thing I want to do is explain it to a bunch of assholes who don’t know me and don’t know anything but the superficial aspects of the sport.

Ash and Luc wave as we pass the reporters, so I do the same. Ash even deigns to stop and answer some questions—something I’m not the least bit interested in doing. But as Luc and I hang there, waiting for him, it’s kind of hard to avoid the shouts being leveled at me. In the end, I walk over and the three of us pose together for the cameras while we answer the questions they keep throwing at us.

Most of them are pretty easy. What tricks are you planning on doing? Do you feel prepared? That video was insane, man. After throwing that out there, how do you cope with the pressure? Do you feel ready for this?

I give my standard answers, wait while Luc and Ash do the same. But just as I’m getting impatient to get to the top of the fucking mountain so I can lay down my first line, one of the reporters shouts out something that I don’t quite hear.

But I can tell it’s bad, from the way Ash reacts and the way the other reporters all kind of stiffen, too. It gets my back up, and deep inside I know that I should just walk away now. Get on the lift, go up to the top of the mountain, and put in the best ride of my professional career.

And yet there’s another part of me, the self-destructive core of me that’s right there under the surface just seething with the need to get out, that tells me not to run from this. That I need to handle it right now before it gets out of hand.

I search for the faces of the reporters until I find the one who’s staring at me, an intent, self-satisfied look on his face. I know the look—hell, I’ve worn it often enough—so I head toward him even as Ash curses beside me.

“Come on, Z.” Luc grabs my arm, tries to drag me away. “Let’s go.”

“In a minute.” I shake him off, then nod to the reporter. We’re close now, only a few feet separating us. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you had any comment about your role in your sister’s kidnapping and subsequent death.”

Though a part of me’s been expecting that question from the second the video went viral—reporters are nothing more than trained snoops—it still hits me hard. And wrong. I want to tell him to go to hell, to mind his own fucking business, but there’s a part of me that’s paralyzed by the words. By hearing them said like that, plain as day. By my worst nightmare, the worst fucking thing in my life, being dragged out for the whole world to see.

“Fuck you, man.” It’s not me who says it this time, but Ash, who looks angry enough to kill. “Get your facts straight.”

“Oh, I have my facts straight. And I’ll be running an article later today with this story. I just wanted to give Z a chance to comment on his side before I publish.”

“There’s no story, man. Z was ten years old. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Is that what you want me to write, Z? That you don’t feel any responsibility for what happened to your sister?”

“You son of a bitch.” Luc launches himself at the line, leading with his fist.

I step between him and the reporter, take the weight of the punch on my own face before he can stop. Still, I’m glad I was there. Luc’s got a temper, and the last thing that needs to go out over the newsfeed today is that he attacked a reporter who was just following a lead on a story.

“Shit, Z. Are you okay?” Ash tries to get a look at the side of my jaw where Luc landed the punch.

“I’m fine.” I shove him away. Cameras are going off all over the place and I don’t want to give the fucking bloodsuckers any more ammunition than they’ve already got. At least not about Ash and Luc, who are only trying to protect me.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, man.” Luc looks sick.

“No worries.” Once he’s calmed down, I make sure my face is totally blank when I turn back to that fucking bottom feeder. “Print whatever you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Feel free.”

And then I’m turning, walking away with Ash and Luc hot on my heels.

“Hey, man, don’t listen to him,” Luc tells me. “He’s just trying to get in your head.”

I nod, keep walking. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.

“We’re serious.” Ash now, scrambling to keep up because I’m walking fast. “He was fishing. He doesn’t know shit.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Exactly,” Ash agrees as we get seated on the magic carpet for the ride up the hill. “He doesn’t matter. Just do your thing up there, okay. Just ride and …”

He keeps talking, but I tune him out. All I can see is the reporter’s face twisted up with a mixture of glee, canned remorse, and triumph for getting the scoop. All I can hear is his smug voice blowing my fucking world apart.

I should have told Ophelia. It’s the first thought that comes to my mind, even before I think about April and my mom. I should have told her so she wouldn’t be totally blindsided by this shit when it hits the news.

But I didn’t. I let myself be convinced it was all going to be okay, even after that fucking video hit the Net. Let myself think that things would work out, even though I knew better. When have they ever worked out for me? When have I ever deserved them to?

When have I ever deserved anything that I have?

“Don’t do this, Z.” Ash’s puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let him get in your head. He was just trying to mess with you.”

“Fuck him. I’m fine.” I shrug his hand off. The pressure’s building, filling me up, shredding me open, making me feel weak and vulnerable and claustrophobic. So fucking claustrophobic. Like the whole fucking world is closing in on me.

When we get to the top of the mountain, I step off the lift. Then I unzip my jacket, shrug it off. I’m dizzy, so fucking dizzy I can barely stand.

Fuck. I’m walking around like some stupid, punk-ass little bitch who can’t handle shit. It pisses me off and I try to walk it off again, but I’m stumbling around like a gaffer who doesn’t have a fucking clue how to walk in snow boots.

Shit. I bend over, brace my hands on my thighs, and try to breathe before I pass out like a total fucking pansy. It almost works, except my cell phone is ringing and buzzing off the hook, the story blowing up all around me.

My life blowing up all around me.

I start to block the calls, but three more text messages come in, right on top of each other. Fuck it. I pull my arm back and then throw the goddamn thing as far away from me as I can get it.

Ash and Luc are both behind me and I expect a chorus of what-the-hells, but all I get is silence. The kind of silence that indicates they’re trying to gauge my measurements for a state-of-the-art straitjacket.

I need to get it together. Because it’s not just Ash and Luc up here. There’s a shitload of other boarders and officials, and I can feel a bunch of them looking at me. Fuck that shit. No way am I losing it in front of the whole fucking world. They can have everything else of me—my blood, my broken bones, maybe even my death one day—but they can’t fucking have that. Not now. Not ever.

I can feel Luc and Ash’s worry—it’s a tangible thing and it makes me feel even more like shit. They should be concentrating on their own runs right now, not worrying about my head or how my run is going to go. But isn’t that how it always is in this friendship? They worry about me, and I keep doing things to make them worry.

What a fucking joke I am. What a fucking joke this all is. I don’t know what to do, don’t know what to say about that story hitting the national news and hurting my father all over again, but it’s not like I have a choice. The more people who see that video, the longer this shit goes on, and the closer I get to basket-case status.

That’s the last thing I fucking want or need. When I get off this mountain, I’ll have Ash pull the fucking video. It won’t do much about the pandemonium going on right now, but it might keep it from escalating.

As for the rest, I’m fine. I’m fucking fine. Once they realize there’s no boarding story here, they’ll move on no matter how juicy my past is. It’s just a matter of running the gauntlet a few times until that happens. Once someone else comes out with some other video, some other trick, no one will even remember this. It’ll just disappear, and I can disappear with it.

The thought calms me down, and I’m able to breathe through the pressure. For a little while anyway. I’ve got to bust out, got to do something soon if I don’t want to be dragged back to this little side trip into insanity, but for now I can hold it together. Or at least fake like I can.

Bending down, I pick up my jacket and shove my hands through the armholes. Then I bend over again and check my boots, make sure they’re nice and tight even as I flip my snowboard over and check for damage from when I dropped it.

It looks good, with only one screw a little loose. But before I can even think about leaving it like that—or reach for the tiny tool I keep in my pocket that helps fix all kinds of riding issues with snowboards—Luc has his out and is tightening the screw for me.

“Thanks, bro.”

He nods, shrugs it off even as he looks concerned.

“Hey,” Ash says, sensing that the storm is over. Little does he know he’s in the eye and it’s about to get fucking crazy up in here. Even I can sense that. “I’ve already texted Mitch and he’s on it. No way is that asshat going to run that story. So let’s just focus for now. We have the preliminaries to get through today, so let’s just put this shit away and we’ll deal with it tonight over dinner and a beer.”

“Sounds good,” I tell him. Except I’ve got other plans for tonight, and none of them involve sitting down with my friends and eating dinner. No, there’s other shit I need to do. Shit that’ll help me get my head on straight again—or at least as straight as I can get it.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sorry about the freak-out. You know how I feel about people searching for shit about me. The past always comes up, and …” I lay the guilt trip deliberately, in an effort to get him to back off.

“Jesus, Z, I hadn’t even thought about the press pulling up shit about April.”

Yeah, well, now it’s all I can think about. Even if Mitch gets that fucktard to back off, there were a shit-ton of reporters out there today. Someone’s going to run with the story. Guaranteed. It’s the nature of the beast. And my guilt will be written up in black and fucking white for the whole world to see. Exactly as I deserve.

But my dad doesn’t need to see that shit again, doesn’t need to relive it now that he’s finally got a new wife, a new kid. A new life. The last thing he wants is any shit from his old life to leak onto that. And I don’t blame him. If I could burn the fuck out of the past like he has, I would. Just fly away like a phoenix and leave it all behind.

But I don’t deserve that. I’ll never deserve it. That’s why I’m here, drowning in the shithole of my life no matter how hard I keep trying to climb out.

I don’t say any of that, though. I just nod like I’m paying attention to what they’re saying. “It’s all good,” I tell them. “No big deal. When he doesn’t get a reaction, it’ll all die down.”

Ash looks at me, his face drawn with guilt, and I can tell he’s torturing himself. I reach out, pat him on the back. “Don’t worry about it, man. It’ll all work out.”

“Mitch’ll handle it,” he tells me again. “He’s already calling in PR favors and shit. He’ll make it all disappear.”

It’s too fucking late for that. Maybe it’s been too late all along. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll call him later, see what’s up.”

“We could do it now.” Luc holds up his phone. “See where he’s at.”

“No!” The last thing I want is to pour the whole fucking story out. Not to my agent, not to anybody. Not ever again. “I just want to ride, man. Okay?”

He looks uncertain, but then he nods and shoves the phone back into his pocket. “Yeah, sure. Let’s do it.”

“I’ve got your phone,” Ash says, pressing the cold device into my hand. “The screen is cracked, but other than that it seems to be working okay.”

“Thanks.” I don’t even bother to look at it. I’m so over this.

So over the past.

So over the shit with my dad.

So over being the one my friends have to tiptoe around.

So over worrying what Ophelia will think when she finally learns the truth.

And I’m damn sure over having to worry about fucking up or freaking out or messing with anything, everything.

I’m just done.

I manage to hold it together until it’s my turn. I’m going seventh, so there aren’t that many people in front of me. The pow should still be good when I get up there, and it should all work out. The course isn’t that big. Only room for four big air tricks on the slopestyle course, and I need to hit them just right.

I watch as number six, Brian Mitchell out of Calgary, tears up the course. Hits the rails hard, then lands a pair of doubles and one triple. It’s a good run, no doubt, but I can beat it with my eyes closed.

Then it’s my turn and I’m pushing off. I glide over the rails like they aren’t even there, even take two backward just to show that I can. The first jump comes up pretty quick once I’m out of the rails, and I nail it with a triple cab. I land smooth, hit the second ramp, and pull out the inverted 1440. The crowd is screaming now—I can hear them—and for a second I think about how easily this could go a different way. How easily it could just—

I hit the third ramp wrong. I can feel it going up, but I try to salvage it. I pull another triple cab out, but I’m going too fast and I’m not in the right position. Adrenaline starts pumping. I’m overrotated, coming down too fast …

I hit hard, slam into the ground at the worst possible angle, end up tumbling ass over teakettle down half the fucking mountain. I feel something pop in my shoulder, then blinding pain shoots through my arm and down my back. I’m rolling hard, so there’s more pain everywhere, my ribs, my left hip, my wrist …

I roll and roll and roll, until I finally get to the bottom of the hill. I’m facedown in the snow and I know I should roll over, show everyone that I’m all right. But the pain is overwhelming now, coming in waves that keep growing bigger and bigger until they’re all I can feel, all I can think about.

Grateful, I give myself over to them and let them pull me under.

Chapter 24

Ophelia

At first I don’t understand what’s going on. I mean, I saw him do the trick, saw him overrotate and come down wrong, slamming into the ground shoulder first. But there’s a part of me that still doesn’t get it. That still doesn’t understand what’s happening. It was an easy trick for him—a triple cab that I’ve seen him land literally a hundred times in the last ten days. He can do it in his sleep. So why is he rolling down a mountain right now, going head over heels as fast as all that momentum can carry him?

Beside me, Gemma gasps, has her hands over her mouth as she starts praying out loud. On my other side Cam is sitting still as a statue, just waiting for it to be over. Just waiting for his poor, abused body to finally come to a stop.

And me, I’m in the middle with no real understanding of what’s happening except to know that, whatever it is, it isn’t good. Please, not his head. Not his neck. Please, please, please. I’ll take any other injury, deal with anything else. But please, please, please, don’t let it be a head or neck injury.

I reach out for Cam, end up clawing her arm as Z finally comes to a stop. “Is he okay?”

She shakes her head grimly. “With the way he landed, I doubt it. He probably tore his rotator cuff again, maybe broke his wrist. It’s not going to be pretty, that’s for sure.”

That’s all I need to hear. I have no conscious memory of moving, but I must have because I’m on my feet and shoving my way through the crowd in an effort to get out of the stands. In an effort to get to Z. There’s a part of me that’s aware of Ash’s family and Cam following along behind me, but I’m not paying attention to them. I’m totally focused on Z’s body lying prone at the bottom of the mountain, and the paramedics who are even now rushing out to him.

“He’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving?”

“Because he broke his fucking shoulder,” Cam tells me tersely. “It hurts like a bitch.”

“His shoulder?” I hang on to the words like a lifeline as I push my way out of the stands and start trying to weave through the crowd of reporters and fans at the bottom of the hill. “You’re sure it’s just his shoulder?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” she snaps at me, as stressed by the situation as I am. “That’s just my guess from seeing falls like that before.”

“How do we get to him?”

“We don’t,” she says as we finally make it to the front of the barricade. “You wait here while I go check what’s going on.”

“But—”

“Wait here.” She points to a spot right at the front of the barricade. “I’m a competitor. You’re not. There’s no way you’re getting past the rope line.”

She’s right. I know she is, and yet it’s killing me to be standing here merely watching when Z has just had an accident.

No, not an accident, a voice deep inside my head says. He knows how to land that trick, can do it in his sleep. If he fell on it here, it’s because he wanted to.

I shove the voice back down, refusing to believe it. He’s been doing so well lately, trying so hard. Why would he have me come in for the competition if he was just going to fuck it all up on purpose? It makes no sense.

And yet even as I’m thinking that, I’m seeing all those competitions I watched. All those videos of him nailing a run and then fucking it up at the end, again and again and again. Almost like he doesn’t even know he’s going to do it until it’s already done.

Which is why it’s an accident, I tell myself viciously.

“It’s okay, Ophelia. He’s going to be all right.” Logan’s there now, taking Cam’s place beside me as Z’s friend flashes her credentials to the guards working the line.

“How do you know?”

He manages to grin at me, though his eyes are wide and nervous. “ ’Cuz he’s Z. He has to be okay.”

I’m close enough now that I can see Z is talking to the paramedics, which means he’s alive and hopefully lucid. But he’s still not moving and I’m terrified Cam is wrong. Terrified he’s hurt much worse than she thinks he is.

Gemma rubs my other arm soothingly. “He’ll be fine, darling. God’s been watching out for that boy for as long as I’ve known him.”

Neither are the answers I’m looking for, not by a long shot, but they’re all I’ve got right now, so I decide to take comfort where I can.

Seconds later, my cell phone rings. It’s Ash, so I pick it up as soon as his name flashes across the screen.

“What’s going on?” we both ask at the same time.

Shit. I thought maybe he’d heard something, since he’s at the top of the mountain with a bunch of officials around him.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “Cam thinks he tore his rotator cuff—”

“So do I,” he says grimly, “Just based on what we saw before they blanked the TV screen. Is he moving around yet? Sitting up?”

The panic gets worse. “No! He’s just lying there.”

I must sound as unhinged as I’m feeling, because Ash suddenly switches to comfort mode. “He’s going to be fine, Ophelia. I promise.”

“Why does everyone keep telling me that? How do you know?”

“Because he’s Z.” He tells me the same thing his brother did.

“What the hell does that even mean?” I demand, so close to hysterical that I no longer care about being polite. “And what the hell happened? I saw him this morning. He seemed totally ready for this competition.”

“It’s a long story,” Ash mutters. “Some reporter got in his head and …” His voice trails off, and that’s when I know, I know, that those ugly suspicions I had were correct. Z did this on purpose. He fucking nearly killed himself deliberately.

He could be lying there paralyzed right now because something set him off. Because he couldn’t deal.

Rage explodes through me, exacerbated by the terror that is still coursing through me. “He did this on purpose. He fucking did this on purpose.”

“It’s not that easy,” Ash tells me. “Calm down and we’ll talk once we know he’s okay.”

“Right. Sure. We’ll talk then.” My head’s so messed up right now that I barely know what I’m saying. “You might call Cam. She got through the barricade and was going to see if she could find out anything more.”

A sudden roar from the crowd has me turning around in time to see Z sitting up with the help of the paramedics. Even from here his shoulder looks messed up, like it’s out of whack, but he’s smiling. Even manages a wave for the crowd with his other arm.

The bastard. The fucking bastard. He promised me he wouldn’t do this again. I told him about Remi, told him about what I saw on those snowboarding videos of him, and he swore to me he wouldn’t deliberately do this again. And yet here we are, the last major competition before the Olympic trials and he goes and makes sure that the whole thing is over for him before it even begins.

The bastard. He could have died. He could have died. It’s all I can think of, all I can wrap my head around right now. That he’s relatively okay, but that he could have died. The fucking, fucking, fucking bastard.

They’re taking him off on a stretcher now, and I see Cam waiting for him on the sidelines. She grabs his hand, holds it tight, but even from this distance I can see tears sparkling in her eyes. The son of a bitch. He’s torturing all of us, holding us all hostage to his mood swings and crazy-ass death wish.

My phone rings again, and I pick it up because I know it’s Cam. “How bad?” I demand.

“Don’t know yet. Paramedics think he dislocated his shoulder, which is actually good. Better than a torn rotator cuff. They think he might have either bruised or cracked a couple of ribs as well, plus his wrist is swelling pretty badly. They’re taking him to Aspen Valley Hospital, and what happens there will determine whether he has to be sent somewhere else.”

“Why would they send him somewhere else?” I ask, alarmed all over again.

“Aspen Valley’s a small hospital. Twenty-five beds. They can deal with a dislocated shoulder and stuff, but if he needs surgery, it’ll have to be done at a bigger hospital.” She pauses. “Do you want me to come get you? You can ride in the ambulance with him.”

I should say yes. I know I should. But all I can see is Z tumbling down the fucking snowboarding course. Z, and Remi in those moments when we plunged over the railing and freefell into the Mississippi. Remi, when they pulled his lifeless body from the car. Somehow it all gets mixed up in my head, and I know I’m going to lose it if I don’t shut all that shit down quick.

“You go ahead,” I tell her. “I’ll catch a ride. Aspen Valley Hospital.”

“It’s the only one in town.”

“Okay. I’ll see you there.”

I hang up from her, dial Ash. He answers on the first ring and I tell him everything Cam has said. I hear Luc in the background, asking questions, but I don’t have the answers. I didn’t think to ask them. I hang up so they can call Cam.

Todd puts his arm around my shoulders and says, “Come on. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

I nod, start to walk with him. But then I remember. “Ash. It’s almost his turn.”

Gemma smiles. “We’ve seen him ride before and we’ll see him again. He’ll be riding later today in the half-pipe and then tomorrow in the finals. We can catch him then.”

“No,” I tell her, moving away. “You stay and watch Ash. I’ll catch a cab to the hospital.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Todd says. “We’re happy to take you. We want to see Z, too.”

Yes, but they shouldn’t have to miss out on seeing their son just because my boyfriend is a selfish prick who doesn’t think of anyone but himself. “He’ll still be there after Ash competes. Stay, watch him, and then I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

“Are you sure?” Gemma seems reluctant, but Todd wraps an arm around her shoulder and whispers something to her. She smiles at me. “Of course, Ophelia. We understand if you want to spend a little time alone with Z before the horde descends.”

“No, that’s not—”

But Todd’s patting my shoulder before moving away. “Do you need cab fare?”

“No! No, of course not. I’ve got it.”

“Okay, then.” Gemma gives me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll see you at the hospital in a little while.”

I nod, because really, what else can I do at this point?

In a daze, I head back to the hotel and grab one of the waiting taxis to take me to the hospital.

The whole ride I’m thinking about Z and Remi, Remi and Z. I’m thinking about Remi dying and how close Z keeps coming to it, too. It all gets mixed up in my head until I can barely see, barely think. Remi. Z. And me, caught in the middle. Again.

By the time I get to the hospital, my emotions are a volatile mixture of fear and anger and sorrow and pain and a bunch more that I’m not even sure about. My head is all confused and I want to cry. I just want to throw myself down on the pavement in front of the hospital and sob at how wrong this has all gone.

I don’t do that, though. Instead, I calmly pay the cabdriver. Walk inside the hospital. Check on Z at the front desk of the emergency room. And then, after they assure me that he’s being taken care of and give me directions to his cubicle, I turn around. And walk right back out the front door of the hospital.

I’m done.

I’m so fucking done.

Chapter 25

Z

She’s not coming.

I tell myself I didn’t expect her to, that I didn’t want her to, but deep down inside, I know the truth. I’ve been waiting for her to walk through that door ever since I got here. Waiting for her to walk in and tell me that she loves me, even though I’m a total and complete fuck-up.

Except she never comes.

Cam comes. So do Luc and Ash and Ash’s parents. Logan. Mitch. A bunch of guys from the competition come by once it’s done. Even a few members of the press camp out outside, waiting to hear what my prognosis is. But Ophelia never shows.

Not that I blame her. I did exactly what I promised her I wouldn’t do, and she walked, just like she promised me she would do.

No harm, no foul. I just didn’t expect it to hurt this badly. Hell, I didn’t know I could hurt this badly. For years I’ve been certain I was completely dead inside.

When I fell for Ophelia, I learned otherwise, but still. I thought, after everything that happened with April, that I was inoculated against feeling this kind of pain. It kind of sucks to find out that I’m not.

On the plus side, despite my complete and utter stupidity, it turns out I’m not nearly as damaged as I should be. As I wanted to be in those few, crazy moments when I lost my shit completely.

I dislocated my shoulder—not the first time that’s happened—so they popped it back in and gave me some pain pills and strict instructions to get some PT when I get back home. I also cracked a couple of ribs and sprained my wrist, so I’m wrapped up pretty tight while the painkillers take care of all that, too. They’re keeping me for observation, just to make sure they didn’t miss anything, but other than that, I’m in pretty good shape. In good enough shape that, if I take care of myself, I should be able to still make the Olympic trials in a couple of weeks.

It’s more than I deserve, more than I have any right to expect. I fucked up. I know I fucked up. I let that reporter and all the shit from my past get in my head and mess me up. And now I’ve lost Ophelia before I ever really had a chance to have her. The Olympic trials seem like a really fucking poor substitute. Still, more than I deserve, though.

“Z? You okay?”

I turn to see Ash and Luc looking at me with concern, which means I’ve once again missed whatever they were saying to me. “Sorry, guys. The Vicodin makes me fuzzy.” I blame it on the pain pills instead of my own utter stupidity.

“No problem.” Ash pats me on the shoulder. “I think we’re going to take off, then. Let you get some sleep. My mom and dad will be here in the morning to pick you up.”

“They don’t need to bother. I can take a cab.”

“Yeah, ’cuz that’s so going to happen,” he tells me with a roll of his eyes. “As soon as I’m done competing, they’ll be by to get you.”

“Thanks, man. And good luck tomorrow. To all three of you. You’re going to shred it.”

He reaches a fist out, bumps it with mine. Seconds later, Luc does the same. Cam leans down and gives me a hug. Then they file out and I’m alone again.

As usual.

The TV is tuned to some old comedy, and though it looks funny, I’m not overly interested in it. Then again, I’m not overly interested in anything else, either.

Except Ophelia, and she didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

I close my eyes, start to drift. And try to think of one goddamn reason to keep breathing. The fact that I can’t think of one isn’t exactly encouraging.

There’s a knock on the door, and I jolt upright at the sound, jarring my shoulder in the process. Ophelia, is all I can think. She came. She—

“Hey, man. Sorry to wake you up.” Mitch is standing in the doorway, a bag of food in his hand. “Let me drop this off and I’ll come back later.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m not really sleeping. It’s just the drugs.”

He nods, walks inside. “I brought you some tacos. Figured it’s better than the shit they serve you in here.”

“Thanks.”

He grabs a seat in the chair closest to the bed, then spends a few minutes laying out dinner for the two of us. He bought me a Coke, but he’s drinking Dr Pepper. The sight of that damn maroon can sends a fresh wave of pain through me. Which makes me feel like an even bigger pussy, which in turn pisses me off all over again. Ophelia’s fucking ruined me. Even worse, I let her.

I shove thoughts of her deep inside, lock that shit up tight. I’m not going to think about her right now. I can’t. Not with all the other crap running around in my head. Maybe later, when I’ve got my shit together again, but not now. Not yet.

I reach for a street taco that I’ve got no desire to eat, polish it off in three bites. Mitch pretty much does the same, eating without saying a word to me about the damn elephant in the room.

Eventually I can’t take the crushing weight of the silence, though, and I say, “So what happened?”

“They’re not running the story.”

I eye him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When he doesn’t say anything else, I demand, “Why not?”

“Because I told them I’d fucking crush anyone who touches the story. Not to mention sue them for every penny their fucking magazines and newspapers are worth. Most didn’t even need the threat. It’s a fucking bullshit story, one only the tabloids would touch to begin with. And by the time my lawyer was done threatening them, even they wouldn’t go near it. It’s dead, Z. It’s going nowhere.”

I close my eyes, wait for the overwhelming sense of relief to flood me, but it never comes. I’m sick of hiding, sick of running, sick of burying my fucking head and pretending the past never happened. April died. She fucking died in a way no one should ever have to die. And I’ve spent the last eleven years being too big of a fucking pussy to fucking acknowledge that. To fucking deal with it.

A tear leaks out from beneath my lashes, and Mitch clears his throat uncomfortably. “You okay?”

I dash it away with the back of my hand. Clear my throat. “Yeah, man. Thanks.”

“No problem.” I hear the rustling of foil, open my eyes to see him clearing up the food mess. “I should probably let you get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re feeling a little better.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure.”

He tosses the trash, then nearly runs from the room after telling me to call him if I need anything. Nice. It takes real skill to drive your girlfriend and your agent away within hours of each other, if I do say so myself.

The thought of Ophelia shreds me all over again, and I reach for my phone. I can’t help it. I check my messages, my voicemail. Nothing. She hasn’t texted, hasn’t called.

Because you’re a prick, the little voice inside me says. You’re a piece of shit who deserves to have her walk. You’ve never deserved her. Never really had her.

I start to put the phone down. Hell, I start to throw the stupid piece of shit against the nearest wall again. But in the end, I can’t. Because I still want her. Fucked up as I am, worthless as I am, I still need her. I don’t even want to talk about how pathetic that makes me.

In the end, I can’t help myself. I pull up her contact information and type in a quick text. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I hit send.

I spend the rest of the night with the phone clutched in my hand, waiting for her to text back.

She never does.

Chapter 26

Ophelia

There’s a knock on the door—the fourth of the night—but I just ignore it the same way I have the others. I’m in Z’s hotel room, not sure where else to go, and I figure anyone knocking on his door doesn’t want to talk to me anyway.

The knock comes again, harder this time, like an open palm slamming against the door. Then Cam’s voice calling, “I know you’re in there, Ophelia. Open the fucking door.”

Afraid something has happened to Z—something worse than what he’s already suffered, I mean—I rush to the door. Throw it open. And get a fist to my face for my trouble.

“You bitch,” Cam spits out as I stumble backward under the strength of her punch. “I should kick your ass right now.”

I touch my eye gingerly. It hurts, and I think I can feel it swelling already. Awesome. “I’m pretty sure you already have.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” But she doesn’t hit me again. Instead she slams the door behind her and just looks at me, arms crossed over her chest and an ugly sneer on her normally too-cute face.

“If that’s all you wanted to do, you should probably go.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she snarls. But she doesn’t make another move toward me. Instead she walks over to the minibar, pulls out a small bottle of vodka, and pours it into a glass. “You know, I just don’t get you,” she says after taking a long sip.

“That’s okay. I don’t get you, either.” She’s in love with Z, probably has been forever. I figured it out a few days ago and then everything made sense. Why she told me about the bet, her sudden animosity toward me, everything. Which is why she should be throwing a party right about now. I’m out of the picture and the path is wide open for her to try to start something with Z. “I thought you’d be sitting by his bedside, holding his hand and pretending everything is going to be all right.”

Even as I say them, the words have my heart dropping to my stomach and my hands clenching into fists. Not that I’ve got any right to be upset. I’m the one who didn’t bother to show up at the hospital. I’m the one who dumped him a second time.

Because I had to, I remind myself viciously. Losing Remi nearly killed me. Losing Z … watching him slowly kill himself … I’d never survive. Already I feel like I’ve been ripped in half, every part of me shredded into pieces so small I’m terrified I’ll never be able to put them back together again.

“Wow, look at you. Who knew you were so good at playing the victim?”

“I’m not playing at anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” She takes another swallow of the vodka, grimaces a little with the taste of it. “You know, Z doesn’t let anybody in. He doesn’t let himself need anyone. But he needs you, and you just fucking walk away like he’s nothing.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that. You’re a shallow bitch just like everybody else he’s ever cared about. You like him when shit’s going good, but the second it gets real, you’re out the door.”

I want to argue with her, to tell her that isn’t true, but how can I when he’s in the hospital and I’m here choking on eleven-month-old memories? “Is he doing okay?”

“Like that’s any of your business? You gave up the right to know the answer to that question the second you didn’t bother to go to the hospital.”

“I went.”

“No, you didn’t. I was there the whole time and I never saw you.”

“I left after making sure he was okay. I couldn’t—”

“Deal. Right? You couldn’t deal with the fact that your superhot, supertalented boyfriend is a real person. That he’s not easy. That’s he’s got issues that run deeper than anything you want to deal with.” She shakes her head, drains the drink. “I just don’t get why he fell for you.”

“Instead of you, you mean?” I strike out before I know what I’m going to say. But I’m hurt and angry and sad, so fucking sad. The last thing I need is for Cam to heap even more guilt on my head.

“Fuck you.”

“I don’t think so.” I walk to the door, open it. “Why don’t you get the hell out?”

“I’m not getting out until you tell me why you fucked with Z like that. Was it to get back at him for the bet? Does it make you feel good to hurt him like this when he’s already had the shit kicked out of him today?”

“He did it to himself.”

“God.” She lets out a sarcastic little laugh. “You’re pathetic.”

“How about you? You’ve been wearing blinders about Z forever. You don’t want to know the truth because then you’ll have to admit that you can’t fix him.”

“Oh, I’m the first one to admit I can’t fix him. That he’s broken, probably beyond repair. You’re the one who won’t accept that. Who only wants him if he’s whole.”

The words hit like blows. “You don’t understand. I saw what happened today. I know he did it on purpose.”

She shrugs. “Who knows if he did or he didn’t? Nothing is ever that cut-and-dried with Z. Besides, that’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point. You know he’s too good to go down like that—”

“What I know is that he was doing fine, holding his shit together. He was excited as hell about boarding that competition. And then a fucking reporter got in his head right before his run.”

“So he threw everything away?”

“Jesus, Ophelia. Open your eyes. You see everything in black and white, but it’s not that simple. You’ve never snowboarded. You don’t know how easy it is to lose focus for one second and screw everything up.”

My hands are shaking, so I shove them into the front pocket of my hoodie. “You think it was just an accident? You think he just fell?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But he didn’t plan to go down like that. That I am sure of.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little naive? You said yourself how messed up he is.”

“He is messed up and believe me, I know that better than anyone. I sure as hell know better than you. I’ve spent the last ten years watching him self-destruct, and trying—with Luc and Ash—to hold him together. I was there when they found April. I was there when he found his mom. And I’ve been there every day since, picking him up when the world gets too fucking hard for him.

“Except today, when he was counting on you to be there. You to pick him up. And what the hell did that get him? Absolutely nothing. You’re no better than his father.” She dumps the glass on the counter, heads for the door. But she stops a couple of feet from it, turns to face me. “You stay away from him, you hear me? You’ve hurt him enough. So you stay far, far away from him.”

“Or what?” I don’t know why I’m challenging her on this, why I even care when she’s telling me to do exactly what I’ve been planning on—staying as far away from Z as I possibly can.

“Or that black eye you’re sporting will be the least of your problems. Ash and Luc won’t touch you because you’re a girl. But I will fucking rip you to shreds.”

She slams out without another word, and I’m left standing there in the middle of a suite that feels empty and lifeless without Z in it. And wondering if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life, bigger even than getting into that car with Remi.

When I can’t stand it anymore, when my head—and my heart—feel like they’re going to explode from the pressure of not knowing, I go to my backpack. Pull out the tablet Z bought me when he realized I didn’t have one. And start researching.

Everyone else knows what’s up with Z. I’m beginning to think that it’s past damn time that I did, too.

Chapter 27

Z

I must have fallen asleep, because it’s pitch dark in my room when I jolt awake, my heart pounding and a nightmare running through my head.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” A soft hand strokes my hair, cups my cheek, and I figure I must still be dreaming. Except the fingers playing with my hair feel pretty damn real. They’re too cold to be anything else.

I force my eyes open, and there she is, sitting next to the bed. Ophelia. “You came.”

She nods, bites her lip. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Yeah,” she tells me. “I do.”

“No.” I reach out to her with my uninjured hand. “You don’t. I understood.”

“Did you? Because, I’ve got to tell you, I barely understand myself.”

“Remi—”

“This isn’t about Remi,” she tells me forcefully. “This is about me and you. He has no business being in here with us.”

“That’s not true,” I tell her, squeezing her hand. “I get it. He’s your past—”

“And you’re my future.”

I freeze, drop my eyes from hers. It feels like I’ve waited my whole life to hear those four words, yet I’ve only known Ophelia a few weeks.

“You don’t believe me,” she says.

“It’s not that.”

“Sure it is. That’s the second thing this is all about. The injuries. The daredevil stuff. You don’t think you have a future, and even if you do, you don’t think you deserve to have anyone of your own in that future.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really?” She holds my eyes with her own, and tonight I’m staring into a color I’ve never seen before. A cool, clear jade that is as resolute as it is beautiful. “Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, prove it.”

“How am I even supposed to do that?” I gesture to the hospital bed and my injured shoulder even as my heart starts to pound hard against my ribs.

“You know very well how.”

Panic wells up inside me as I finally get what she’s asking. No, what she’s demanding. “You don’t understand—”

“You’re right. I don’t. So make me understand.”

I shake my head. “It’s not that easy.” I can’t tell her. I can’t say the words.

“Will it help if I tell you I already know?”

Fuck. “Do you?”

She nods. “Yes.”

Double fuck. “Cam?”

“No. Your friends would never betray your confidence like that.”

“Then how?”

She sighs, rests her head on the railing on the side of my bed. I take advantage of her position to run my fingers through her curls. Part of me thinks she’s going to move her head away, that she won’t want me to touch her now that she knows just what a fuck-up I am, but she doesn’t. She just sits there and lets me pet her for as long as I want. I can’t believe how good it feels just to touch her even as what little is left of my world falls down around me.

“I came to the hospital this afternoon, got here right after you did.”

“I didn’t know that. They said—”

“Shh.” She rests gentle fingers against my lips. “I didn’t stay. I was … I was pretty messed up. And I’m sorry about that. Sorry you had to go through all that without me.”

“It’s fine. I don’t expect—”

“See, that’s the thing. You don’t even get how awful that is. How terrible it is that you don’t expect anyone to be there for you, ever. That you don’t think you deserve it. And I just reinforced that belief this afternoon. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for being such a selfish bitch.”

“I don’t need your apology, Ophelia. And I don’t need your pity.” Pity is the last thing I want from her.

“Is that what you think this is? Really? Pity?”

“What the hell else would it be?” Suddenly I’m angry. Really angry, and I don’t even know why. “You walked out because of what I did, and now, suddenly, you find out about my past and you’re back. What is that if it isn’t pity?”

“Understanding. Empathy. Love. I get that you don’t recognize them, since it seems no one has ever really given them to you before.”

I shake my head. “That’s not true. You said you loved me before, and you still …”

“I still walked away. I know. But trust me when I say I had to get some things straight in my head. If I’d come in earlier, when I was so messed up, it wouldn’t have gone well for either one of us. I would have hurt you more—”

“You think I give a shit? Pain I can take.” I push myself up to a sitting position, refusing to have this conversation lounging around like an invalid no matter how much my shoulder hurts. “I’m a fucking expert at taking that shit. But you walking away to protect me? That’s not okay. If you’re messed up, you come to me. If you’re hurt, you talk to me. You let me help you—”

“Why should I?”

Excuse me? “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you don’t come to me when you’re messed up. You don’t talk to me. You let me find out about the past that is still haunting you from old newspaper articles.” She’s right in my face now, her sweetness gone as quickly as it came. “Why the hell should I trust you with my mindfucks if you don’t trust me with yours?”

I flop back against the bed, then regret it when my currently numb shoulder starts to throb. Damn it. I walked right into that one. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same and you know it, or you wouldn’t be lying there pouting right now.”

“I don’t pout.”

“Sorry. It’s just that that brooding expression looks an awful lot like pouting from here.”

I glare at her, and she glares back like the total badass she is. God, it’s sexy. And God, do I love her.

It’s that thought more than any other that gets me talking. Because I do love her and I don’t want to lose her like I’ve lost almost everything else in my life. I didn’t think she’d stick if she knew, but here she is. She knows everything and she’s sitting right here across from me, all but daring me to try to cut her out of my life again.

I wouldn’t even know how to try. Still, it’s not nearly as easy to talk to her as I wish it was. I’ve locked this shit down deep for eleven years. Spewing it back out now feels about like I imagine swallowing razor blades would.

“Her name was April.” I finally manage to get the first sentence out, then I close my eyes, rest my head back against the bed. “My sister. She was seven years old when she was—” My voice breaks when I try to say it, so I clear my throat. Try to start again.

“When she was kidnapped and murdered.” Ophelia says it for me, her voice strong and steady as she gives voice to the words I’ve never been able to say.

“Yes.” I clutch her hand in mine. “My dad had a business call, and he thought we were making too much noise—thought I was making too much noise—so he sent us to the park down the street for an hour. Told me I was in charge, which I totally rubbed her nose in like the obnoxious older brother I was.

“For a long time it was fine. We played on the jungle gym, ran around, all that stuff. But then I had to pee, so I told her to wait by the water fountains next to the bathroom and I would be right back. I made her promise not to go anywhere, but she was only seven, and …

“I was only in there a couple of minutes. Two. Maybe three. But when I got back, she was gone. At first I thought she was hiding from me, so I looked for her. And I got madder and madder the longer I looked. I told her—I called to her that I gave up a bunch of times, but she never came out.

“Finally my dad came looking for us, and when he realized she wasn’t there, he flipped out. Screamed at me for being stupid. For not understanding. And then he called the police and they came and they talked to me. For a long time I was the number one suspect. They thought I’d hurt April and then hidden her body somewhere. My parents never said it, but I think they thought so, too.”

Hot tears leak from the corner of my eyes at that admission, and I turn my face away, not wanting Ophelia to see what a pussy I really am. That’s why I never talk about this, never even think about this. Because I’m too fucking weak to handle it.

Ophelia leans over, brushes kisses over the tear tracks on my face. “It’s okay, baby,” she tells me. “You don’t ever have to be embarrassed in front of me. Ever. For any reason.”

“I would never hurt—”

“I know. I know.” She squeezes my hand.

I nod, then continue, because if I don’t say it now, I know I never will. “They found her six weeks later, about a hundred miles away. She’d been—He raped her. That bastard raped and murdered a seven-year-old little girl and then threw her away like she was garbage. Like she was nothing.

“And she wasn’t. She was everything. She was smart and silly and she told the most awful knock-knock jokes in the whole world. It used to drive me crazy having to listen to those ridiculous punch lines all the time.” My voice breaks again. “She wore ribbons in her shoes instead of shoelaces, and always matched them to the bows in her hair. She—” My voice fails altogether, and this time Ophelia doesn’t just rub me comfortingly. She actually climbs into the bed with me, snuggles in against my uninjured side.

“I think I would have liked her.”

I run my fingers through her hair, loving the sweet peach scent of her. “You would have loved her. She was sassy, just like you.”

“You think I’m sassy?”

“Baby, I was trying to be polite. I think you’re a lot more than sassy.”

She laughs. “I don’t know if I should be insulted or not.”

“Never.” I want to kiss her, but my shoulder makes it difficult to move around, so I settle for squeezing her more tightly against me. “I think you’re amazing.”

She squeezes back. “I think you’re pretty amazing, too.” She waits for a minute or two, just lying there against me, before she asks, “What about your mom?”

“Fuck. You really are ripping open every fucking wound I’ve got.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t find anything on her in the paper, so—”

“My mom killed herself exactly one year after my sister disappeared. She climbed into the bathtub and slit her wrists while my dad was on a business trip. I found her when I got home from school.”

“Jesus Christ, Z.”

I don’t say anything else. Neither does she. At least not for a while. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say.

Finally, when I can’t take the silence any longer, I tell her, “I’m sorry about the competition. It was a stupid thing to do.”

She nods, doesn’t even pretend to disagree. In fact, she doesn’t say anything else for a long time, so long that I think she might have fallen asleep. I’m starting to drift myself, high on painkillers, when she whispers, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Suddenly I’m wide awake again. “Don’t,” I tell her.

“Why not? Somebody has to. What happened to April wasn’t your fault. It just happened, Z. The way terrible shit sometimes happens. There are all kinds of psychos in the world. You aren’t responsible for what they do.”

“My mother—”

“Your mother was lost. I wasn’t there, but I can imagine how devastating April’s death was to her. She was lost and sad and miserable after April and she made a selfish, selfish decision. She let herself drown in the pain. That’s all. Still not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t gone to the bathroom—”

“If you hadn’t gone to the bathroom, that bastard might have gotten you, too. Then you’d be dead right along with April. Is that what you really want?”

“I wish it had been me,” I whisper, voicing the words I’ve never dared to say out loud before. The words that have been my mantra, the words that for so long have been my reason for being. I wish with everything inside me that it had been me that day in November and not April.

“I know. But it wasn’t.” She burrows into me, kisses my neck. “It wasn’t, and I will thank God every day that it wasn’t. I love you, Z. I love everything about you, and the idea that you might have died, that you might not exist in this world—I can’t even imagine it.”

It’s her turn to cry, my turn to comfort. Except it turns out I’m still crying a little, too. Eleven years I didn’t cry, and now that I have this beautiful, beautiful girl in my arms, I can’t seem to stop.

She doesn’t seem to care, though, as she runs her lips over my cheeks and jaw and nose and forehead. “Promise me,” she tells me in between kisses.

“Anything.”

She stops, looks me in the eye. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t you know I’d do anything for you?”

“Promise me that when you start to feel like this again, you’ll talk to me. That you’ll tell me what you’re feeling so we can work through it together.”

“I’m not—I’m not very good at the together thing, in case you haven’t noticed. Or the talking thing.”

“Believe me,” she says with a fake glare, “I’ve noticed. But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt if you promise never to shut me out again. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you need to do to cope with it, I’ll deal with, too. I swear, I will. But you have to talk to me. You have to trust me to be there for you the way you are for me.”

I don’t jump in with a rash promise again, but I think that’s okay. I think she wants me to think about what she’s asking. Because we both know she’s asking a lot. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to give it to her. I really don’t. But I know I want to try. She’s my everything, and if hurting myself means hurting her, then I’m going to have to find another way to cope. Because I never want to hurt her like this again.

“You’ll probably have to drag it out of me sometimes.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll probably be grumpy as fuck about it. I don’t like being vulnerable, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“And I’ll probably never be completely normal.”

She laughs. “Baby, that possibility was never even on the table.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

“That’s what you don’t get, Z. As long as you try, as long as you don’t shut me out, I will never not be here. No matter how bad or how good it gets, I will always be right here next to you.”

It’s a big promise—a huge one, really—but for the first time in over a decade, I’ve found someone to believe in. Someone to believe. It’s more than I ever thought I’d have, and for now … for now, it’s more than enough.

Epilogue

Z

“You’ve got this, baby.”

“I know.” I smile at Ophelia, lean down so she can give me a kiss for luck. It’s the last day of the Dew tour, the first of three Olympic qualifying events. I’m the top-ranked boarder going into the finals, with Ash ranked third and Luc ranked tenth.

Cam just finished the women’s final with a third-place ranking, so to say we’re all a little excited would probably be an understatement. Ophelia’s at least as excited as the rest of us, maybe even more. I know she’s certainly more nervous. Not that I blame her. I think there will always be a part of her that’s waiting for me to mess up. Then again, I could just be projecting my own shit onto her.

I nearly laugh at the thought. After spending so many years trying to stay out of my own head, now I’m voluntarily diving in, thanks to Ophelia—and to the damn shrink she’s talked me into seeing once a week. It’s not easy, and I fucking suck at talking about my feelings and shit. But still, I’m trying. For Ophelia. And maybe, just maybe, for me, too.

I give her another kiss, this one more because I can’t keep my hands off her than because I think I need luck. At first I think she’s going to duck away—a million or so people are watching us, after all—but not my girl. Instead of pulling back, she wraps her arms around me and kisses me for all she’s worth. Her body melts into mine, her breasts press against my chest, and suddenly the run I need to throw down in a few minutes is the last thing on my mind.

“Z. We need to go.” Ash’s voice barely penetrates.

I tangle my hands in Ophelia’s hair, tilt her head back so that I can deepen the kiss. She tastes as sweet as ever—a mixture of the ever-present peaches and the caramel-flavored coffee she just finished.

I slide my tongue along hers and she moans, her arms tightening around my neck until our bodies are pressed as tightly together as they can get.

“Okay, seriously.” Behind me, Ash clears his throat. “We need to get up there.”

I’m still not listening, but Ophelia sighs, pulls away. “Go,” she says, pushing me toward the lift. “Do a bunch of turns and stuff.”

“Really? Still with that?” I shake my head. It’s embarrassing, really, how little she knows about snowboarding. I’m definitely going to have to do something about that.

“What do you want me to say?” she asks. Before I can answer, she continues, “Oh, right. Have a sick ride. And while you’re at it, I want to see at least one YOLO flip and a triple cork 1260. Got it?”

My mouth drops open. “How did you—”

She just smiles. “I’m dating one of the best snowboarders in the world. The least I could do is learn a little bit about the sport.”

“Yeah, but a YOLO flip? Do you even know what that is?”

“It’s a cab double cork 1440. Which means you get to do a whole lot of those little spinny things you like to do.” She leans forward, drops another kiss on my mouth, then turns around and heads toward the stands.

“You’re just going to walk away?”

She stops, turns back. “I think you’ve got a competition to win, don’t you? And I need to go find Ash’s family.”

“They’re not here yet?” Ash asks, looking surprised as he scans the crowd.

“They probably are. I just haven’t found them yet.”

“Come on, guys. Let’s go.” Luc shoves us toward the magic carpet. “We’ve got shit to do.”

We do. We really do.

With a last wave at Ophelia—yeah, I’m whipped, and no, I don’t give a shit—I climb onto the lift, wait impatiently for it to take us to the top. This time I am not going to choke. I need to prove it to myself as much as I do Ophelia and my friends.

Since I’m ranked first, I’m boarding last, which means I get to watch everyone else go. Jake, the kid from Colorado, throws up a good score, and then Gage, from Taos, comes out of nowhere and blasts straight into first place with a triple cork 1440. He just fucking nails it. Luc throws down a good run, but again, this isn’t his event, so he’s happy when he lands in sixth place.

Then it’s Ash’s turn and his run is flawless. Fucking flawless. He doesn’t pull a 1440, but his 1260s are perfect and he slides right past Gage into first.

Then it’s my turn. The pressure isn’t totally on yet. I have one more run in case I fuck this one up—we all do—but I want to nail it so bad I can taste it. I scan the crowd in the stands, find Ophelia’s silly pink-and-purple-striped hat.

That little glimpse is all I need, the extra bit of reassurance that settles nerves I never knew I had and gets me down to business. I shove off and jump onto the top of the dumpster they’ve got set up for us to ride. I spin off that, hit the ramp into a solid double back rodeo. The landing’s perfect, and I coast backward down two sets of rails, adding in a little flip at the bottom of the second one for the hell of it.

I can hear the crowd cheering, but I can barely hear it above the adrenaline rush. I’ve got this. I can feel it in my fucking boots. I’ve got this.

I hit the second ramp, pull off a nice little triple cork 1260 for my girl, do another rail, and push my speed as I head into the big ramp that marks the end of the run. I hit it hard, grab decent air, and that’s when I bust out with the YOLO flip. For a second, just a second, I think I’m not going to land it. That this has all been a dream and I’m going to fuck it up like I’ve fucked up so many other things.

But then Ophelia’s face flashes in front of me, her eyes shining a bright, bright emerald, and I know that it’s all real. That it’s all good.

I land like a dream, then coast down to the bottom of the hill as the crowd goes crazy.

Ash and Luc are waiting for me at the rope line, and they fucking jump on me the second I’m clear. “Holy shit!” Ash screams. “Holy shit!”

“You did it!” Luc yells. “You fucking did it!”

“The score’s not in yet.” But it doesn’t matter. It’s going to be good. We all know it. I barged that run. I fucking barged it.

Instinctively I turn toward the stands, searching for Ophelia. She and Cam are battling their way through the crowd trying to get to me. The commentators are saying something, but all I can hear is my girl screaming my name.

She gets to me just as the score is announced. It’s perfect. A perfect fucking score.

I won.

Holy shit. I won. Everyone has one more shot, but there hasn’t been another perfect score this whole competition. I fucking won this shit.

The crowd is going nuts, and so are we—Luc and Ash, Cam and Ophelia. I try to maintain just a little bit of swagger, but it’s no use. I can’t stop smiling. I don’t think I’m fooling anybody, and you know what? For the first time, I don’t care. Nothing has ever felt this good.

My girl is in my arms.

My friends are all around me.

And there is a perfect fucking score on that board up there.

If I never have another day like this, it’ll be okay. Because I have this moment and that’s everything.

My phone rings, but I ignore it. Nothing and no one is as important as right now.

“We’ve got to go,” Luc says after a couple of minutes, when my phone rings a second time. “We’ve got to get back up there before we’re all DQ’d.”

“I know, I know,” I tell him, then lean down and kiss Ophelia one more time.

“Thank you,” I whisper against her lips. “Thank you for giving me this.”

She shakes her head and cups my face in her hands as tears roll down her face. Before she can say anything, though, Ash grabs me by the collar and pulls me toward the lift. “Later,” I mouth to her.

She nods, her smile so big and bright that I’m nearly blinded by it.

We’re almost at the magic carpet when Ash’s phone rings. “It’s probably Mitch,” he says as he reaches for it. “Wanting to congratulate you since you won’t answer your phone.”

But he looks confused when he sees the number.

“Who is it?” I ask, suddenly feeling uneasy, though I don’t know why.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t answer. If it’s important, they’ll call back.”

But it’s too late. He’s already dragging the phone open. “Hello?”

He doesn’t say anything else for long seconds, but his face slowly drains of color.

“Ash? Man? What’s wrong?”

Luc crowds in, too, looking as worried as I feel.

He doesn’t answer, but the phone slips from his grasp and hits the ground, hard. Seconds later he does the same thing.

“What the fuck?” I glance at Luc, but he’s as baffled as I am.

“Ash?” I say again as I crouch down next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“My family,” he croaks.

“What?”

“Accident on the way up here. Logan’s in surgery and my mom and dad … My mom and dad are dead.”

Content

Shredded
Extreme Risk - 1
by
Tracy Wolff

Chapter 1 Z

Chapter 2 Ophelia

Chapter 3 Z

Chapter 4 Ophelia

Chapter 5 Z

Chapter 6 Ophelia

Chapter 7 Z

Chapter 8 Ophelia

Chapter 9 Z

Chapter 10 Ophelia

Chapter 11 Z

Chapter 12 Ophelia

Chapter 13 Z

Chapter 14 Ophelia

Chapter 15 Z

Chapter 16 Ophelia

Chapter 17 Z

Chapter 18 Ophelia

Chapter 19 Z

Chapter 20 Ophelia

Chapter 21 Z

Chapter 22 Ophelia

Chapter 23 Z

Chapter 24 Ophelia

Chapter 25 Z

Chapter 26 Ophelia

Chapter 27 Z

Epilogue Z